ma 


Cbe  Bnglteb 
Come"Dte  tmmatne 

•Romance  an&  t>umor 
THE  COLLEGIANS 


OR 


THE  COLLEEN  BAWN 


A    TALE    OF 
GARRYOWEN 


BY 

GERALD  GRIFFIN 


Gbe  Englteb 
Comefciejbumaine 

IRomance  an&  Ibumor 

Masterpieces  of  the  great 
English  novelists  in  which 
are  portrayed  the  varying 
aspects  of  English  life  from 
the  time  of  Addison  to  the 
present  day :  a  series  anal- 
ogous to  that  in  which 
Balzac  depicted  the  man- 
ners and  morals  of  his 
French  contemporaries. 


Gbe  Bnglisb  Commie  tmmaine 
IRomancc  an&  tmmor 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

OR  THE  COLLEEN  BAWN 


A  TALE  OF  GARRYOWEN 


BY 

GERALD   GRIFFIN 


NEW  YORK 

Century  Co. 
1907 


Copyright  1906,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 

Published  April,  igo 


THE  DE  VINNE  PRESS 


PUBLISHER'S  NOTE. 

Gerald  Griffin,  novelist,  dramatist  and  poet,  was  born  in 
Limerick,  Ireland,  in  1803.  Shortly  after  his  parents  emigrated 
to  Pennsylvania  in  1820  he  went  to  London  and  entered  the  field 
of  journalism.  His  first  creative  work  was  of  a  dramatic  nature 
and  of  which  little  was  heard.  He  returned  to  Ireland  and  devoted 
himself  to  fiction.  In  1829  he  published  anonymously  "The 
Collegians,"  which  soon  attained  wide  popularity.  Other  volumes 
followed,  notably  "Suil  Dhow" ;  but  it  is  as  the  author  of  "The 
Collegians"  that  Griffin  is  known  to  fame.  This  story  perhaps  is 
more  familiar  to  the  present  generation  in  the  play  form-a  drama- 
tization by  Dion  Boucicault  under  the  title  of  "The  Colleen  Bawn." 
As  a  picture  of  the  life  and  manners  of  the  upper  and  middle  classes 
of  Ireland,  "The  Collegians"  entitles  the  author  to  rank  with  Carle- 
ton  and  Miss  Edgeworth.  "As  an  expounder  of  that  subtlest  pro- 
blem, the  Irish  heart,"  Griffin  has  made  himself  beloved  of  his  race. 
In  a  lesser  degree  he  has  done  for  Ireland  what  Scott  has  done  for 
Scotland. 


2057938 


CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  I  PAGB 

How  Garryowen  rose,  and  how  it  fell 3 

CHAPTER  II 
How  Eily  O'Connor  puzzled  all  the  inhabitants  of  Garryowen . .         6 

CHAPTER  III 
How  Mr.  Daly  the  middleman  sat  down  to  breakfast 14 

CHAPTER  IV 
How  Mr.  Daly  the  middleman  rose  up  from  breakfast 25 

CHAPTER  V 

How  Kyrle  Daly  rode  out  to  woo,  and  how  Lowry  Looby  told 
him  some  stories  on  the  way 35 

CHAPTER  VI 

How  Kyrle  Daly  was  more  puzzled  by  a  piece  of  paper  than  the 
abolishers  of  the  small-note  currency  themselves 46 

CHAPTER  VII 

How  Kyrle  Daly  discovers  that  all  the  sorrow  under  the  sun  does 
not  rest  upon  his  shoulders  alone 52 

CHAPTER  VIII 
How  the  reader,  contrary  to  the  declared  intention  of  the 

historian,  obtains  a  description  of  Castle  Chute 60 

CHAPTER  IX 
How  Myles  Murphy  is  heard  on  behalf  of  his  ponies 69 

vii 


CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  X  PAGB 

How  KyrJe  Daly  sped  in  his  wooing 75 

CHAPTER  XI 
How  Kyrle  Daly  has  the  good  luck  to  see  a  staggeen-race 85 

CHAPTER  XII 
How  fortune  brings  two  old  friends  together 91 

CHAPTER  XIII 

How  the  two  friends  hold  a  longer  conversation  together  than 
the  reader  may  probably  approve loo 

CHAPTER  XIV 
How  Lowry  becomes  philosophical no 

CHAPTER  XV 
How  Hardress  spent  his  time  while  Kyrle  Daly  was  asleep 117 

CHAPTER  XVI 
How  the  friends  parted 132 

CHAPTER  XVII 
How  Hardress  learned  a  little  secret  from  a  dying  huntsman. .  .      139 

CHAPTER  XVIII 

How  the  gentlemen   spent   the   evening,    which  proved  rather 
warmer  than  Hardress  expected 147 

CHAPTER  XIX 
How  Hardress  met  an  old  friend  and  made  a  new  one 145 

CHAPTER  XX 
How  Hardress  had  a  strange  dream  of  Eily 157 

CHAPTER  XXI 
Kow  Hardress  met  a  strange  trial ^4 

CHAPTER  XXII 
How  the  temptation  of  Hardress  proceeded 175 

viii 


CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XXIII  PAGK 

How  an  unexpected  visitor  arrived  in  Eily's  cottage 1 84 

CHAPTER  XXIV 
How  Eily  undertakes  a  journey  in  the  absence  of  her  husband     192 

CHAPTER  XXV 
How  Eily  fared  in  her  expedition 200 

CHAPTER  XXVI 
How  Hardress  consoled  himself  during  his  separation  from  Eily     208 

CHAPTER  XXVII 
How  Hardress  answered  the  letter  of  Eily 217 

CHAPTER  XXVIII 
How  the  little  lord  put  his  master's  wishes  into  action ........     226 

CHAPTER  XXIX 
How  Hardress  lost  an  old  acquaintance 234 

CHAPTER  XXX 
How  Hardress  got  his  hair  dressed  in  Listowel,  and  heard  a 

little  news 242 

CHAPTER  XXXI 

How  Kyrle  Daly  hears  of  the  handsome  conduct  of  his  friend 
Hardress 252 

CHAPTER  XXXII 
How  Kyrle  Daly's  warlike  ardour  was  checked  by  an  untoward 

incident 259 

CHAPTER  XXXIII 
How  Hardress  met  a  friend  of  Eily's  at  the  wake 267 

CHAPTER  XXXIV 
How  the  wake  concluded 274 

CHAPTER  XXXV 
How  Hardress  at  length  received  some  news  of  Eily 281 

ix 


CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XXXVI 
How  Hardress  made  a  confidant 289 

CHAPTER  XXXVII 
How  Hardress  found  that  conscience  is  the  sworn  foe  of  valour     299 

CHAPTER  XXXVIII 
How  the  situation  of  Hardress  became  more  critical 307 

CHAPTER  XXXIX 

How  the  danger  to  the  secret  of  Hardress  was  averted  by  the 
ingenuity  of  Irish  witnesses 316 

CHAPTER  XL 
How  Hardress  took  a  decisive  step  for  his  own  security 324 

CHAPTER  XLI 
How  the  ill  temper  of  Hardress  again  brought  back  his  perils     332 

CHAPTER   XLII 

How  Mr.  Warner  was  fortunate  enough  to  find  a  man  that  could 
and  would  speak  English 339 

CHAPTER  XLIII 
How  the  bride  was  startled  by  an  unexpected  guest 346 

CHAPTER  XLIV 
How  more  guests  appeared  at  the  wedding  than  had  been  invited     352 

CHAPTER  XLV 
How  the  story  ended 365 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

With  drawings  by  Jay  Hambidge 

The  wind  had  blown  back  the  hood  from  her  shoulders. . Frontis-piece 

f,  '  FACING  PAGE 

Creagn,  who  was  unhurt,  reserved  his  shot I46 

Sinking  at  his  feet,  exclaimed,  "My  child,  forgive  me !" 362 


THE  COLLEGIANS 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

CHAPTER   I 

HOW  GARRYOWEN  ROSE,  AND  HOW  IT  FELL 

THE  little  ruined  outlet,  which  gives  its  name  to  one  of  the 
most  popular  national  songs  of  Erin,  is  situate  on  the  acclivity 
of  a  hill  near  the  city  of  Limerick,  commanding  a  not  uninter- 
esting view  of  that  fine  old  town,  with  the  noble  stream  that  washes 
its  battered  towers,  and  a  richly  cultivated  surrounding  country. 
Tradition  has  preserved  the  occasion  of  its  celebrity,  and  the  origin 
of  its  name,  which  appears  to  be  compounded  of  two  Irish  words 
signifying  '  Owen's  garden.' — A  person  so  called  was  the  owner, 
about  half  a  century  since,  of  a  cottage  and  plot  of  ground  on  this 
spot,  which,  from  its  contiguity  to  the  town,  became  a  favourite 
holiday  resort  with  the  young  citizens  of  both  sexes — a  lounge  pre- 
senting accommodations  somewhat  similar  to  those  which  are 
offered  to  the  London  mechanic  by  the  Battersea  tea-gardens. 
Owen's  garden  was  the  general  rendezvous  for  those  who  sought 
for  simple  amusement  or  for  dissipation.  The  old  people  drank 
together  under  the  shade  of  trees — the  young  played  at  ball,  goal, 
or  other  athletic  exercises  on  the  green;  while  a  few,  lingering  by 
the  hedge-rows  with  their  fair  acquaintances,  cheated  the  time  with 
sounds  less  boisterous,  indeed,  but  yet  possessing  their  fascination 
also. 

The  festivities  of  our  fathers,  however,  were  frequently  dis- 
tinguished by  so  fierce  a  character  of  mirth,  that,  for  any  difference 
in  the  result  of  their  convivial  meetings,  they  might  as  well  have 
been  pitched  encounters.  Owen's  garden  was  soon  as  famous  for 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

scenes  of  strife,  as  it  was  for  mirth  and  humour;  and  broken  heads 
became  a  staple  article  of  manufacture  in  the  neighbourhood. 

This  new  feature  in  the  diversions  of  the  place  was  encouraged 
by  a  number  of  young  persons  of  a  rank  somewhat  superior  to  that 
of  the  usual  frequenters  of  the  garden.  They  were  the  sons  of  the 
more  respectable  citizens,  the  merchants  and  wholesale  traders  of 
the  city,  just  turned  loose  from  school  with  a  greater  supply  of 
animal  spirits  than  they  had  wisdom  to  govern.  Those  young 
gentlemen  being  fond  of  wit,  amused  themselves  by  forming  parties 
at  night,  to  wring  the  heads  off  all  the  geese,  and  the  knockers  off 
all  the  hall  doors  of  the  neighbourhood.  They  sometimes  suffered 
their  genius  to  soar  as  high  as  the  breaking  of  a  lamp,  and  even 
the  demolition  of  a  watchman;  but,  perhaps,  this  species  of  joking 
was  found  a  little  too  serious  to  be  repeated  over  frequently,  for 
few  achievements  of  so  daring  a  violence  are  found  amongst  their 
records.  They  were  obliged  to  content  themselves  with  the  less 
ambitious  distinction  of  destroying  the  knockers  and  store-locks, 
annoying  the  peaceable  inmates  of  the  neighbouring  houses  with 
long-continued  assaults  on  the  front  doors,  terrifying  the  quiet 
passengers  with  every  species  of  insult  and  provocation,  and 
indulging  their  fracticidal  propensities  against  all  the  geese  in 
Garryowen. 

The  fame  of  the  '  Garryowen  boys '  soon  spread  far  and  wide. 
Their  deeds  were  celebrated  by  some  inglorious  minstrel  of  the  day 
in  that  air  which  has  since  resounded  over  every  quarter  of  the 
world,  and  even  disputed  the  palm  of  national  popularity  with 
'  Patrick's  day.'  A  string  of  jolly  verses  were  appended  to  the  tune 
which  soon  enjoyed  a  notoriety  similar  to  that  of  the  famous 
*  Lilli-burlero,  bullen-a-la '  which  sung  King  James  out  of  his  three 
kingdoms.  The  name  of  Garryowen  was  as  well  known  as  that  of 
the  Irish  Numantium,  Limerick,  itself,  and  Owen's  little  garden 
became  almost  a  synonyme  for  Ireland. 

But  that  principle  of  existence  which  assigns  to  the  life  of  man 
its  periods  of  youth,  maturity,  and  decay,  has  its  analogy  in  the  fate 
of  villages,  as  in  that  of  empires.  Assyria  fell,  and  so  did  Garry- 
owen! Rome  had  its  decline,  and  Garryowen  was  not  immortal. 
Both  are  now  an  idle  sound,  with  nothing  but  the  recollections  of 
old  tradition  to  invest  them  with  an  interest.  The  still  notorious 
suburb  is  little  better  than  a  heap  of  rubbish,  where  a  number  of 
smoked  and  mouldering  walls,  standing  out  from  the  masses  of  stone 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

and  mortar,  indicate  the  position  of  a  once  populous  row  Of  dwell- 
ing-houses. A  few  roofs  yet  remain  unshaken,  under  which  some 
impoverished  families  endeavour  to  work  out  a  wretched  subsist- 
ence by  maintaining  a  species  of  huxter  trade,  by  cobbling  old 
shoes,  and  manufacturing  ropes.  A  small  rookery  wearies  the  ears 
of  the  inhabitants  at  one  end  of  the  outlet,  and  a  rope-walk  which 
extends  along  the  adjacent  slope  of  Gallows-green  (so  called  for 
certain  reasons)  brings  to  the  mind  of  the  conscious  spectator  asso- 
ciations that  are  not  calculated  to  enliven  the  prospect.  Neither 
is  he  thrown  into  a  more  jocular  frame  of  mind  as  he  picks  his  steps 
over  the  insulated  paving-stones  that  appear  amid  the  green  slough 
with  which  the  street  is  deluged,  and  encounters  at  the  other  end  an 
alley  of  coffin-makers'  shops,  with  a  fever  hospital  on  one  side,  and 
a  churchyard  on  the  other.  A  person  who  was  bent  on  a  journey 
to  the  other  world  could  not  desire  a  more  expeditious  outfit  than 
Garryowen  could  now  afford  him :  nor  a  more  commodious  choice 
of  conveyances,  from  the  machine  on  the  slope  above  glanced  at, 
to  the  pest-house  at  the  farther  end. 

But  it  is  ill  talking  lightly  on  a  serious  subject.  The  days  of 
Garryowen  are  gone,  like  those  of  ancient  Erin;  and  the  feats  of 
her  once  formidable  heroes  are  nothing  more  than  a  winter's  even- 
ing tale.  Owen  is  in  his  grave,  and  his  garden  looks  dreary  as  a 
ruined  churchyard.  The  greater  number  of  his  merry  customers 
have  followed  him  to  a  narrower  playground,  which,  though  not 
less  crowded,  affords  less  room  for  fun,  and  less  opportunity  for 
contention.  The  worm  is  here  the  reveller,  the  owl  whoops  out 
his  defiance  without  an  answer  (save  the  echo's),  the  best  whiskey 
in  Munster  would  not  now  '  drive  the  cold  out  of  their  hearts,'  and 
the  withered  old  sexton  is  able  to  knock  the  bravest  of  them  over 
the  pate  with  impunity.  A  few  perhaps  may  still  remain  to  look 
back  with  a  fond  shame  to  the  scene  of  their  early  follies,  and  to 
smile  at  the  page  in  which  those  follies  are  recorded. 

Still,  however,  there  is  something  to  keep  the  memory  alive  of 
those  unruly  days,  and  to  preserve  the  name  of  Garryowen  from 
utter  extinction.  The  annual  fair  which  is  held  on  the  spot  presents 
a  spectacle  of  gaiety  and  uproar  which  might  rival  its  most  boisterous 
days;  and  strangers  still  inquire  for  the  place  with  a  curiosity  which 
its  appearance  seldom  fails  to  disappoint.  Our  national  lyrist  has 
immortalized  the  air  by  adapting  to  it  one  of  the  liveliest  of  his 
melodies; — the  adventures,  of  which  it  was  once  the  scene,  consti- 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

tute  a  fund  of  standing  joke  and  anecdote  which  are  not  neglected 
by  the  neighbouring  story-tellers;— and  a  rough  voice  may  still 
occasionally  be  heard  by  the  traveller  who  passes  near  its  ruined 
dwellings  at  evening,  to  chant  a  stanza  of  the  chorus  which  was 
once  in  the  mouth  of  every  individual  in  the  kingdom: — 

'  Tis  there  we'll  drink  the  nut-brown  ale, 
An'  pay  the  reck'nin'  on  the  nail; 
No  man  for  debt  shall  go  to  jail 
From  Garryowen  a  gloria.' 


CHAPTER  II 

HOW   EILY  O'CONNOR  PUZZLED  ALL  THE  INHABITANTS  OF 
GARRYOWEN 

BUT  while  Owen  lived,  and  while  his  garden  flourished,  he  and 
his  neighbours  were  as  merry  together  as  if  death  could  never 
reach  the  one,  nor  desolation  waste  the  other.  Among  those  fre- 
quenters of  his  little  retreat  whom  he  distinguished  with  an  especial 
favour  and  attention,  the  foremost  was  the  handsome  daughter  of 
an  old  man  who  conducted  the  business  of  a  rope- walk  in  his  neigh- 
bourhood, and  who  was  accustomed  on  a  fine  Saturday  evening  to 
sit  under  the  shade  of  a  yellow  osier  that  stood  by  his  door,  and 
discourse  of  the  politics  of  the  day — of  Lord  Halifax's  administra- 
tion— of  the  promising  young  patriot  Mr.  Henry  Grattan — and  of 
the  famous  Catholic  concession  of  1773.  Owen,  like  all  Irishmen, 
even  of  the  humblest  rank,  was  an  acute  critic  in  female  proportions, 
and  although  time  had  blown  away  the  thatching  from  his  head, 
and  by  far  the  greater  portion  of  blood  that  remained  in  his  frame 
had  colonized  about  his  nose,  yet  the  manner  in  which  he  held  forth 
on  the  praises  of  his  old  friend's  daughter  was  such  as  put  to  shame 
her  younger  and  less  eloquent  admirers.  It  is  true,  indeed,  that 
the  origin  of  the  suburban  beauty  was  one  which,  in  a  troubled 
country  like  Ireland,  had  little  of  agreeable  association  to  recom- 
mend it;  but  few  even  of  those  to  whom  twisted  hemp  was  an  object 
of  secret  terror,  could  look  on  the  exquisitely  beautiful  face  of  Eily 
O'Connor,  and  remember  that  she  was  a  ropemaker's  daughter; 
few  could  detect  beneath  the  timid,  hesitating,  downcast  gentleness 
of  manner,  which  shed  an  interest  over  all  her  motions,  the  traces 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

of  a  harsh  and  vulgar  education.  It  was  true  that  she  sometimes 
purloined  a  final  letter  from  the  King's  adjectives,  and  prolonged 
the  utterance  of  a  vowel  beyond  the  term  of  prosodaical  orthodoxy, 
but  the  tongue  that  did  so  seemed  to  move  on  silver  wires,  and  the 
lip  on  which  the  sound  delayed 

'long  murmuring,  loth  to  part,' 

imparted  to  its  own  accents  ah  association  of  sweetness  and  grace, 
that  made  the  defect  an  additional  allurement.  Her  education  in 
the  outskirts  of  a  city  had  not  impaired  the  natural  tenderness  of  her 
character;  for  her  father,  who,  all  rude  as  he  was,  knew  how  to 
value  his  daughter's  softness  of  mind,  endeavoured  to  foster  it  by 
every  indulgence  in  his  power.  Her  uncle,  too,  who  was  now  a 
country  parish  priest,  was  well  qualified  to  draw  forth  any  natural 
talent  with  which  she  had  been  originally  endowed.  He  had  com- 
pleted his  theological  education  in  the  famous  University  of  Sala- 
manca, where  he  was  distinguished  as  a  youth  of  much  quietness  of 
temper  and  literary  application,  rather  than  as  one  of  those  furious 
gesticulators,  those  'figures  Hibernoises,'  amongst  whom  Gil  Bias,  in 
his  fit  of  logical  lunacy,  could  meet  his  only  equals.  At  his  little 
lodging,  while  he  was  yet  a  curate  at  St.  John's,  Eily  O'Connor  was 
accustomed  to  spend  a  considerable  portion  of  her  time,  and  in 
return  for  her  kindness  in  presiding  at  his  simple  tea-table,  Father 
Edward  undertook  to  bestow  a  degree  of  attention  on  her  education, 
which  rendered  her,  in  a  little  time,  as  superior  in  knowledge  as  she 
was  in  beauty  to  her  female  associates.  She  was  remarked  likewise 
at  this  time  as  a  little  devotee,  very  regular  in  her  attendance  at 
chapel,  constant  in  all  the  observances  of  her  religion,  and  grave  in 
her  attire  and  discourse.  On  the  coldest  and  dreariest  morning  in 
winter,  she  might  be  seen  gliding  along  by  the  unopened  shop- 
windows  to  the  nearest  chapel,  where  she  was  accustomed  to  hear 
an  early  mass,  and  return  in  time  to  set  everything  in  order  for  her 
father's  breakfast.  During  the  day  she  superintended  his  house- 
hold affairs,  while  he  was  employed  upon  the  adjacent  rope- walk; 
and,  in  the  evening,  she  usually  slipped  on  her  bonnet,  and  went 
across  the  street  to  Father  Edward's,  where  she  chatted  away  until 
tea  was  over;  if  he  happened  to  be  engaged  in  reading  his  daily 
office,  she  amused  herself  with  a  volume  of  moral  entertainment, 
such  as  Rasselas'  '  Prince  of  Abyssinia,'  or  Mr.  Addison's  '  Specta- 
tor,' until  he  was  at  leisure  to  hear  her  lessons.  An  attachment  of 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

the  purest  and  tenderest  nature  was  the  consequence  of  those  mutual 
attentions  between  the  uncle  and  niece,  and  it  might  be  said  that  if 
the  former  loved  her  not  as  well,  he  knew  and  valued  her  character 
still  better  than  her  father. 

Father  Edward,  however,  was  appointed  to  a  parish,  and  Eily 
lost  her  instructor.  It  was  for  her  a  severe  loss,  and  most  severe 
in  reality  when  its  effect  upon  her  own  spirits  began  to  wear  away. 
For  some  months  after  his  departure,  she  continued  to  lead  the  same 
retired  and  unobtrusive  life,  and  no  eye,  save  that  of  a  consummate 
observer,  could  detect  the  slightest  alteration  in  her  sentiments,  the 
least  increase  of  toleration  for  the  world  and  worldly  amusements. 
That  change,  however,  had  been  silently  affected  in  her  heart.  She 
was  now  a  woman — alovely,  intelligent,  full-grown  woman — and  cir- 
cumstances obliged  her  to  take  a  part  in  the  little  social  circle  which 
moved  around  her.  Her  spirits  were  naturally  light,  and,  though 
long  repressed,  became  readily  assimilated  to  the  buoyant  tone  of 
the  society  in  which  she  happened  to  be  placed.  Her  father,  who, 
with  a  father's  venial  vanity,  was  fond  of  showing  his  beautiful 
child  among  his  neighbours,  took  her  with  him  one  evening  to 
Owen's  garden,  at  a  time  when  it  was  unusually  gay  and  crowded, 
and  from  that  evening  might  be  dated  the  commencement  of  a 
decided  and  visible  change  in  the  lovely  Eily's  character. 

As  gradual  as  the  approach  of  a  spring  morning,  Was  the  change 
from  grave  to  gay  in  the  costume  of  this  flower  of  the  suburbs.  It 
dawned  at  first  in  a  handsome  bow-knot  upon  her  head-dress,  and 
ended  in  the  full  noontide  splendour  of  flowered  muslins,  silks,  and 
sashes.  It  was  like  the  opening  of  the  rosebud,  which  gathers 
around  it  the  winged  wooers  of  the  summer  meadow.  '  Lads,  as 
brisk  as  bees,'  came  thronging  in  her  train,  with  proffers  of '  honour- 
able love  and  rites  of  marriage; '  and  even  among  the  youths  of  a 
higher  rank,  whom  the  wild  levity  of  Irish  blood  and  high  spirits  sent 
to  mingle  in  the  festivities  of  Owen's  garden,  a  jealousy  prevailed 
respecting  the  favour  of  the  ropemaker's  handsome  daughter.  It 
was  no  wonder  that  attentions  paid  by  individuals  so  much  superior 
to  her  ordinary  admirers,  should  render  Eily  indifferent  to  the  sighs 
of  those  plebeian  suitors.  Dunat  O'Leary,  the  hair-cutter,  or  Foxy 
Dunat,  as  he  was  named  in  allusion  to  his  red  head,  was  cut  to 
the  heart  by  her  utter  coldness.  Myles  Murphy,  likewise,  a  good- 
natured  farmer  from  Killarney,  who  travelled  through  the  country 
selling  Kerry  ponies,  and  claiming  relationship  with  every  one  he 

8 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

met,  claimed  kindred  in  vain  with  Eily,  for  his  claim  was  not  allowed. 
Lowry  Looby,  too,  the  servant  of  Mr.  Daly,  a  wealthy  middleman 
who  lived  in  the  neighbourhood,  was  suspected  by  many  to  entertain 
delusive  hopes  of  Eily  O'Connor's  favour — but  this  report  was 
improbable  enough,  for  Lowry  could  not  but  know  that  he  was  a 
very  ugly  man;  and  if  he  were  as  beautiful  as  Narcissus,  Mihil 
O'Connor  would  still  have  shut  the  door  in  his  face  for  being  as  poor 
asTimon.  So  that  though  there  was  no  lack  of  admirers,  the  lovely 
Eily,  like  many  celebrated  beauties  in  a  higher  rank,  ran,  after  all, 
a  fair  chance  of  becoming  what  Lady  Mary  Montague  has  elegantly 
termed  '  a  lay  nun.'  Even  so  a  book- worm,  who  will  pore  over  a 
single  volume  from  morning  till  night,  if  turned  loose  into  a  library, 
wanders  from  shelf  to  shelf,  bewildered  amid  a  host  of  temptations, 
and  unable  to  make  any  selection  until  he  is  surprised  by  twilight, 
and  chagrined  to  find,  that  with  so  much  happiness  within  his  grasp, 
he  has  spent,  nevertheless,  an  unprofitable  day. 

But  accident  saved  Eily  from  a  destiny  so  deeply  dreaded  and 
so  often  lamented  as  that  above  alluded  to, — a  condition  which 
people  generally  agree  to  look  upon  as  one  of  utter  desolation, 
and  which,  notwithstanding,  is  frequently  a  state  of  greater  happi- 
ness than  its  opposite.  On  the  eve  of  the  seventeenth  of  March, 
a  day  distinguished  in  the  ropemaker's  household,  not  only  as 
the  festival  of  the  national  Saint,  but  as  the  birthday  of  the 
young  mistress  of  the  establishment, — on  this  evening,  Eily  and 
her  father  were  enjoying  their  customary  relaxation  at  Owen's 
garden.  The  jolly  proprietor  was  seated  as  usual,  with  his 
rope-twisting  friend,  under  the  yellow  osier,  while  Myles  Murphy, 
who  had  brought  a  number  of  his  wild  ponies  to  be  disposed 
of  at  the  neighbouring  fairs,  had  taken  his  place  at  the  end 
of  the  table,  and  was  endeavouring  to  insinuate  a  distant  rela- 
tionship between  the  Owens  of  Kilteery,  connections  of  the 
persons  whom  he  addressed,  and  the  Murphys  of  Knockfodhra, 
connections  of  his  own.  A  party  of  young  men  were  playing  fives 
at  a  ball  alley,  on  the  other  side  of  the  green;  and  another,  more 
numerous,  and  graced  with  many  female  figures,  were  capering  away 
to  the  tune  of  the  foxhunter's  jig,  on  the  short  grass.  Some  poor  old 
women,  with  baskets  on  their  arms,  were  endeavouring  to  sell  off 
some  Patrick's  crosses  for  children,  at  the  low  rate  of  one  halfpenny 
apiece,  gilding,  paint,  and  all.  Others,  fatigued  with  exertion, 
were  walking  under  the  still  leafless  trees,  some  with  their  hats, 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

some  with  their  coats  off,  jesting,  laughing,  and  chatting  familiarly 
with  their  female  acquaintances. 

Mihil  "O'Connor,  happening  to  see  Lowry  Looby  among  the 
promenaders,  glancing  now  and  then  at  the  dance,  and  whistling 
'  Patrick's  day,'  requested  him  to  call  his  daughter  out  of  the  group, 
and  tell  her  that  he  was  waiting  for  her  to  go  home.  Lowry  went, 
and  returned  to  say,  that  Eily  was  dancing  with  a  strange  young 
gentleman  in  a  boating-dress,  and  that  he  would  not  let  her  go  until 
she  had  finished  the  slip  jig. 

It  continued  a  sufficient  time  to  tire  the  old  man's  patience. 
When  Eily  did  at  last  make  her  appearance,  he  observed  there  was 
a  flush  of  mingled  weariness  and  pleasure  on  her  cheek,  which 
showed  that  the  delay  was  not  quite  in  opposition  to  her  own  incli- 
nations. This  circumstance  might  have  tempted  him  to  receive  her 
with  a  little  displeasure,  but  the  honest  Owen  at  that  moment  laid 
hold  on  both  father  and  daughter,  insisting  that  they  should  come 
in  and  take  supper  with  his  wife  and  himself. 

This  narrative  of  Eily's  girlhood  being  merely  introductory,  we 
shall  forbear  to  furnish  any  detail  of  the  minor  incidents  of  the 
evening,  or  the  quality  of  Mrs.  Owen's  entertainment.  They  were 
merry  and  happy;  so  much  so,  that  the  Patrick's  eve  approached 
its  termination  before  they  arose  to  bid  their  host  and  hostess  a  good 
night.  Owen  advised  them  to  walk  on  rapidly  in  order  to  avoid  the 
'  Pathrick's  boys '  who  would  promenade  the  streets  after  twelve,  to 
welcome  in  the  mighty  festival  with  music  and  uproar  of  all  kinds. 
Some  of  the  lads,  he  said, '  might  be  playen'  their  thricks  upon  Miss 
Eily.' 

The  night  was  rather  dark,  and  the  dim  glimmer  of  the  oil-lamps 
which  were  suspended  at  long  intervals  over  the  street  doors  tended 
only  in  a  very  feeble  degree  to  qualify  the  gloom.  Mihil  O'Connor 
and  his  daughter  had  already  performed  more  than  half  their  jour- 
ney, and  were  turning  from  a  narrow  lane  at  the  head  of  Mungret- 
street,  when  a  loud  and  tumultuous  sound  broke  with  sudden 
violence  upon  their  hearing.  It  proceeded  from  a  multitude  of 
people  who  were  moving  in  confused  and  noisy  procession  along 
the  street.  An  ancient  and  still  honoured  custom  summons  the 
youthful  inhabitants  of  the  city  on  the  night  of  this  anniversary 
to  celebrate  the  approaching  holiday  of  the  patron  Saint  and 
apostle  of  the  island  by  promenading  all  the  streets  in  succession, 
playing  national  airs,  and  filling  up  the  pauses  in  the  music  with 


10 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

shouts  of  exultation.  Such  was  the  procession  which  the  two 
companions  now  beheld  approaching. 

The  appearance  which  it  presented  was  not  altogether  destitute 
of  interest  and  amusement.  In  the  midst  were  a  band  of  musicians 
who  played  alternately  '  Patrick's  day '  and  '  Garryowen,'  while  a 
rabble  of  men  and  boys  pressed  round  them,  thronging  the  whole 
breadth  and  a  considerable  portion  of  the  length  of  the  street.  The 
men  had  got  sprigs  of  shamrock  in  their  hats,  and  several  carried 
in  their  hands  lighted  candles  protected  from  the  wasting  nightblast 
by  a  simple  lamp  of  whited  brown  paper.  The  fickle  and  unequal 
light  which  those  small  torches  threw  over  the  faces  of  the  individuals 
who  held  them,  afforded  a  lively  contrast  to  the  prevailing  darkness. 

The  crowd  hurried  forward,  singing,  playing,  shouting,  laughing, 
and  indulging,  to  its  full  extent,  all  the  excitement  which  was  oc- 
casioned by  the  tumult  and  the  motion.  Bedroom  windows  were 
thrown  up  as  they  passed,  and  the  half-dressed  inmates  thrust  their 
heads  into  the  night  air  to  gaze  upon  the  mob  of  enthusiasts.  All 
the  respectable  persons  who  appeared  in  the  street  as  they  advanced, 
turned  short  into  the  neighbouring  by-ways  to  avoid  the  impor- 
tunities which  they  would  be  likely  to  incur  by  a  contact  with  the 
multitude. 

But  it  was  too  late  for  our  party  to  adopt  this  precaution.  Before 
it  had  entered  their  minds,  the  procession  (if  we  may  dignify  it  by  a 
name  so  sounding)  was  nearer  to  them  than  they  were  to  any  turn 
in  the  street,  and  the  appearance  of  flight  with  a  rabble  of  men,  as 
with  dogs,  is  a  provocation  of  pursuit.  Of  this  they  were  aware — 
and  accordingly,  instead  of  attempting  a  vain  retreat,  they  turned 
into  a  recess  formed  by  one  of  the  shop  doors,  and  quietly  awaited 
the  passing  away  of  this  noisy  torrent.  For  some  moments  they 
were  unnoticed;  the  fellows  who  moved  foremost  being  too  busy  in 
talking,  laughing,  and  shouting  to  pay  any  attention  to  objects  not 
directly  in  their  way.  But  they  were  no  sooner  espied  than  the  wags 
assailed  them  with  that  species  of  wit  which  distinguishes  the  in- 
habitants of  the  back  lanes  of  a  city,  and  forms  the  terror  of  all 
country  visitors.  These  expressions  were  lavished  upon  the  rope- 
maker  and  his  daughter,  until  the  former,  who  was  as  irritable  an 
old  fellow  as  Irishmen  generally  are,  was  almost  put  out  of  patience. 

At  length,  a  young  man  observing  the  lamp  shine  for  a  moment 
on  Eily's  handsome  face,  made  a  chirp  with  his  lips  as  he  passed 
by,  as  if  he  had  a  mind  to  kiss  her.  Not  Pupiritus  himself,  when 

ii 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

vindicating  his  senatorial  dignity  against  the  insulting  Gaul,  could 
be  more  prompt  in  action  than  Mihil  O'Connor.  The  young 
gentleman  received  in  return  for  his  affectionate  greeting  a  blow 
over  the  temple  which  was  worth  five  hundred  kisses.  An  uproar 
immediately  commenced,  which  was  likely  to  end  in  some  serious 
injury  to  the  old  man  and  his  daughter.  A  number  of  ferocious 
faces  gathered  round  them  uttering  sounds  of  harsh  rancour  and 
defiance,  which  Mihil  met  with  equal  loudness  and  energy.  Indeed 
all  that  seemed  to  delay  his  fate  and  hinder  him  from  sharing  in  the 
prostration  of  his  victim  was  the  conduct  of  Eily,  who  flinging  her- 
self in  barearmed  beauty  before  her  father,  defended  him  for  a  time 
against  the  upraised  weapons  of  his  assailants.  No  one  would  incur 
the  danger  of  harming,  by  an  accidental  blow,  a  creature  so  young, 
so  beautiful,  and  so  affectionate. 

They  were  at  length  rescued  from  this  precarious  condition  by 
the  interposition  of  two  young  men  in  the  dress  of  boatmen  who 
appeared  to  possess  some  influence  with  the  crowd,  and  who  used 
it  for  the  advantage  of  the  sufferers.  Not  satisfied  with  having 
brought  them  safely  out  of  all  immediate  danger,  the  taller  of  the 
two  conducted  them  to  their  door,  saying  little  on  the  way  and  taking 
his  leave  as  soon  as  they  were  in  perfect  safety.  All  that  Mihil 
could  learn  from  his  appearance  was,  that  he  was  a  gentleman, 
and  very  young — perhaps  not  more  than  nineteen  years  of  age. 
The  old  man  talked  much  and  loudly  in  praise  of  his  gallantry,  but 
Eily  was  altogether  silent  on  the  subject. 

A  few  days  after,  Mihil  O'Connor  was  at  work  upon  the  rope- walk, 
going  slowly  backwards  in  the  sunshine  with  a  bundle  of  hemp 
between  his  knees,  and  singing  'Maureen  Thierna.'*  A  hunch- 
backed little  fellow  in  a  boatman's  dress  came  up,  and  saluting  him 
in  a  sharp  city  brogue,  reminded  the  old  ropemaker  that  he  had 
done  him  a  service  a  few  evenings  before.  Mihil  professed  his 
acknowledgments,  and  with  true  Irish  warmth  of  heart,  assured 
the  little  boatman  that  all  he  had  in  the  world  was  at  his  service. 
The  hunch-back,  however,  only  wanted  a  few  ropes  and  blocks  for 
his  boat,  and  even  for  those  he  was  resolute  in  paying  honourably. 
Neither  did  he  seem  anxious  to  satisfy  the  curiosity  of  old  Mihil  with 
respect  to  the  name  and  quality  of  his  companion;  for  he  was  inex- 
orable in  maintaining  that  he  was  a  turf  boatman  from  Scagh  who 
had  come  up  to  town  with  him  to  dispose  of  a  cargo  of  fuel  at  Char- 
*  Little  Mary  Tierney. 

12 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

lotte's  Quay.  Mihil  O'Connor  referred  him  to  his  daughter  for 
the  ropes,  about  which  he  said  she  could  bargain  as  well  as  himself, 
and  he  was  unable  to  leave  his  work  until  the  rope  he  had  in  hand 
should  be  finished.  The  little  deformed,  no  way  displeased  at  this 
intelligence,  went  to  find  Eily  at  the  shop,  where  he  spent  a  longer 
time  than  Mihil  thought  necessary  for  his  purpose. 

From  this  time  forward  the  character  of  Eily  O'Connor  seemed 
to  have  undergone  a  second  change.  Her  former  gravity  returned, 
but  it  did  not  reappear  under  the  same  circumstances  as  before.  In 
her  days  of  religious  retirement,  it  appeared  only  in  her  dress,  and 
in  her  choice  of  amusements.  Now  both  her  recreations  and  her 
attire  were  much  gayer  than  ever,  so  much  so  as  almost  to  approach  a 
degree  of  dissipation,  but  her  cheerfulness  of  mind  was  gone,  and 
the  sadness  which  had  settled  on  her  heart,  like  a  black  reef  under 
sunny  waters,  was  plainly  visible  through  all  her  gaiety.  Her 
father  was  too  much  occupied  in  his  eternal  rope-twisting  to  take 
particular  notice  of  this  change,  and,  besides,  it  is  notorious  that 
one's  constant  companions  are  the  last  to  observe  any  alteration  in 
one's  manner  or  appearance. 

One  morning  when  Mihil  O'Connor  left  his  room,  he  was  sur- 
prised to  find  that  the  breakfast-table  was  not  laid  as  usual,  and  that 
his  daughter  was  not  in  the  house.  She  made  her  appearance, 
however,  while  he  was  himself  making  the  necessary  arrangements. 
They  exchanged  a  greeting  somewhat  colder  on  the  one  side,  and 
more  embarrassed  on  the  other,  than  was  usual  at  the  morning 
meetings  of  the  father  and  daughter.  But  when  she  told  him,  that 
she  had  been  only  to  the  chapel,  the  old  man  was  perfectly  satisfied, 
for  he  knew  that  Eily  would  as  readily  think  of  telling  a  falsehood 
to  the  priest  as  she  would  to  her  father.  And  when  Mihil  O'Connor 
heard  that  people  were  at  the  chapel,  he  generally  concluded  (poor 
old  man!)  that  it  was  only  to  pray  they  went  there. 

In  the  meantime  Myles  Murphy  renewed  his  proposals  to  Eily, 
and  succeeded  in  gaining  over  the  father  to  his  interests.  The  latter 
was  annoyed  at  his  daughter's  obstinate  rejection  of  a  fine  fellow 
like  Myles,  with  a  very  comfortable  property,  and  pressed  her  either 
to  give  consent  to  the  match  or  a  good  reason  for  her  refusal.  But 
this  request,  though  reasonable,  was  not  complied  with:  and  the 
ropemaker,  though  not  so  hot  as  Capulet,  was  as  much  displeased 
at  the  contumacy  of  his  daughter.  Eily,  on  her  part,  was  so  much 
afflicted  at  the  anger  of  her  only  parent,  that  it  is  probable  her  grief 

13 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

would  have  made  away  with  her  if  she  had  not  prevented  that  catas- 
trophe by  making  away  with  herself. 

On  the  fair  day  of  Garryowen,  after  sustaining  a  long  and  dis- 
tressing altercation  with  her  father  and  her  mountain  suitor,  Eily 
O'Connor  threw  her  blue  cloak  over  her  shoulders  and  walked 
into  the  air.  She  did  not  return  to  dinner,  and  her  father  felt  angry 
at  what  he  thought  a  token  of  resentful  feeling.  Night  came,  and 
she  did  not  make  her  appearance.  The  poor  old  man  in  an  agony 
of  terror  reproached  himself  for  his  vehemence,  and  spent  the  whole 
night  in  recalling  with  a  feeling  of  remorse  every  intemperate  word 
which  he  had  used  in  the  violence  of  dispute.  In  the  morning,  more 
like  a  ghost  than  a  living  being,  he  went  from  the  house  of  one  ac- 
quaintance to  another  to  inquire  after  his  child.  No  one,  however, 
had  seen  her,  except  Foxy  Dunat,  the  hair-cutter,  and  he  had  only 
caught  a  glimpse  of  her  as  she  passed  his  door  on  the  previous  even- 
ing. It  was  evident  that  she  was  not  to  return.  Her  father  wa? 
distracted.  Her  young  admirers  feared  that  she  had  got  privately 
married,  and  run  away  with  some  shabby  fellow.  Her  female 
friends  insinuated  that  the  case  might  be  still  worse,  and  some  pious 
old  people  shook  their  heads  when  the  report  reached  them,  and  said 
they  knew  what  was  likely  to  come  of  it,  when  Eily  O'Connor  left 
off  attending  her  daily  mass  in  the  morning,  and  went  to  the  dance 
of  Garryowen, 


CHAPTER  III 

HOW  MR.  DALY  THE  MIDDLEMAN  SAT  DOWN  TO  BREAKFAST 

THE  Dalys  (a  very  respectable  family  in  middle  life)  occupied, 
at  the  time  of  which  we  write,  a  handsome  cottage  on 
the  Shannon  side,  a  few  miles  from  the  suburban  district  above 
mentioned. 

They  had  assembled,  on  the  morning  of  Eily's  disappearance,  a 
healthy  and  blooming  household  of  all  sizes,  in  the  principal  sitting- 
room  for  a  purpose  no  less  important  than  that  of  despatching 
breakfast.  It  was  a  favourable  moment  for  any  one  who  might  be 
desirous  of  sketching  a  family  picture.  The  windows  of  the  room, 
which  were  thrown  up  for  the  purpose  of  admitting  the  fresh  morn- 

14 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

ing  air,  opened  upon  a  trim  and  sloping  meadow  that  looked  sunny 
and  cheerful  with  the  bright  green  aftergrass  of  the  season.  The 
broad  and  sheety  river  washed  the  very  margin  of  the  little  field,  and 
bore  upon  its  quiet  bosom  (which  was  only  ruffled  by  the  circling 
eddies  that  encountered  the  advancing  tide)  a  variety  of  craft,  such 
as  might  be  supposed  to  indicate  the  approach  to  a  large  commercial 
city.  Majestic  vessels,  floating  idly  on  the  basined  flood,  with  sails 
half  furled,  in  keeping  with  the  languid  beauty  of  the  scene;  lighters 
burthened  to  the  water's  edge  with  bricks  or  sand;  large  rafts  of 
timber,  borne  onward  towards  the  neighbouring  quays  under  the 
guidance  of  a  shipman's  boat-hook;  pleasure-boats,  with  gaudy 
pennons  hanging  at  peak  and  topmast;  or  turf-boats,  with  their 
unpicturesque  and  ungraceful  lading,  moving  sluggishly  forward, 
while  their  black  sails  seemed  gasping  for  a  breath  to  fill  them; 
such  were  the  incidents  that  gave  a  gentle  animation  to  the  prospect 
immediately  before  the  eyes  of  the  cottage-dwellers.  On  the 
farther  side  of  the  river  arose  the  Cratloe  hills,  shadowed  in  various 
places  by  a  broken  cloud,  and  rendered  beautiful  by  the  chequered 
appearance  of  the  ripening  tillage,  and  the  variety  of  hues  that  were 
observable  along  their  wooded  sides.  At  intervals,  the  front  of  a 
handsome  mansion  brightened  up  in  a  passing  gleam  of  sunshine, 
while  the  wreaths  of  blue  smoke,  ascending  at  various  distances 
from  amongst  the  trees,  tended  to  relieve  the  idea  of  extreme  soli- 
tude which  it  would  otherwise  have  presented. 

The  interior  of  the  cottage  was  not  less  interesting  to  contem- 
plate than  the  landscape  which  lay  before  it.  The  principal  break- 
fast-table (for  there  were  two  spread  in  the  room)  was  placed  before 
the  window,  the  neat  and  snow-white  damask  cloth  covered  with 
fare  that  spoke  satisfactorily  for  the  circumstances  of  the  proprietor, 
and  for  the  housewifery  of  his  helpmate.  The  former,  a  fair, 
pleasant-faced  old  gentleman  in  a  huge  buckled  cravat  and  square- 
toed  shoes,  somewhat  distrustful  at  the  meagre  beverage  which 
fumed  out  of  Mrs.  Daly's  lofty  and  shining  coffee-pot,  had  taken 
his  position  before  a  cold  ham  and  fowl  which  decorated  the  lower 
end  of  the  table.  His  lady,  a  courteous  old  personage,  with  a  face 
no  less  fair  and  happy  than  her  husband's,  and  with  eyes  sparkling 
with  good  nature  and  intelligence,  did  the  honours  of  the  board  at 
the  farther  end.  On  the  opposite  side,  leaning  over  the  back  of  his 
chair  with  clasped  hands  in  an  attitude  which  had  a  mixture  of 
abstraction  and  anxiety,  sat  Mr.  Kyrle  Daly,  the  first  pledge  of 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

connubial  affection  that  was  born  to  this  comely  pair.  He  was  a 
young  man  already  initiated  in  the  rudiments  of  the  legal  profession; 

of  a  handsome  figure,  and  in  manner but  something  now 

pressed  upon  his  spirits  which  rendered  this  an  unfavourable  occa- 
sion for  describing  it. 

A  second  table  was  laid  in  a  more  retired  portion  of  the  room  for 
the  accommodation  of  the  younger  part  of  the  family.  Several 
well-burnished  goblets,  or  porringers,  of  thick  milk  flanked  the  sides 
of  this  board,  while  a  large  dish  of  smooth-coated  potatoes  reeked 
up  in  the  centre.  A  number  of  blooming  boys  and  girls,  between 
the  ages  of  four  and  twelve,  were  seated  at  this  simple  repast,  eating 
and  drinking  away  with  all  the  happy  eagerness  of  youthful  appetite. 
Not,  however,  that  this  employment  occupied  their  exclusive  atten- 
tion, for  the  prattle  which  circulated  round  the  table  frequently 
became  so  boisterous  as  to  drown  the  conversation  of  the  older 
people,  and  to  call  forth  the  angry  rebuke  of  the  master  of  the  family. 

The  furniture  of  the  apartment  was  in  accordance  with  the  appear- 
ance and  manners  of  its  inhabitants.  The  floor  was  handsomely 
carpeted,  a  lofty  green  fender  fortified  the  fire-place,  and  supplied 
Mr.  Daly  in  his  facetious  moments  with  occasions  for  the  frequent 

repetition  of  a  favourite  conundrum '  Why  is  that  fender  like 

Westminster  Abbey? '  a  problem  with  which  he  never  failed  to  try 
the  wit  of  any  stranger  who  happened  to  spend  a  night  beneath  his 
roof.  The  wainscoted  walls  were  ornamented  with  several  of  the 
popular  prints  of  the  day,  such  as  Hogarth's  Roast  Beef — Prince 
Eugene — Schomberg  at  the  Boyne — Mr.  Betterton  playing  Cato  in 
all  the  glory  of 

'Full  wig,  flower'd  gown,  and  lacker'd  chair,' 

or  the  royal  Mandane,  in  the  person  of  Mrs.  Mountain,  strutting 
among  the  arbours  of  her  Persian  palace  in  a  lofty  tete  and  hooped 
petticoat.  There  were  also  some  family  drawings,  done  by  Mrs. 
Daly  in  her  school-days,  of  which  we  feel  no  inclination  to  say  more 
than  that  they  were  very  prettily  framed.  In  justice  to  the  fair 
artist  it  should  also  be  mentioned  that,  contrary  to  the  established 
practice,  her  sketches  were  never  re-touched  by  the  hand  of  her 
master;  a  fact  which  Mr.  Daly  was  fond  of  insinuating,  and  which 
no  one,  who  saw  the  pictures,  was  tempted  to  call  in  question.  A 
small  book-case,  with  the  edges  of  the  shelves  handsomely  gilded, 
was  suspended  in  one  corner  of  the  room,  and  on  examination  might 

16 


be  found  to  contain  a  considerable  number  of  works  on  Irish  History, 
— for  which  study  Mr.  Daly  had  a  national  predilection,  a  circum- 
stance much  deplored  by  all  the  impatient  listeners  in  his  neigh- 
bourhood, and  (some  people  hinted)  in  his  own  household,— some 
religious  books,  and  a  few  volumes  on  cookery  and  farming.  The 
space  over  the  lofty  chimney-piece  was  assigned  to  some  ornaments 
of  a  more  startling  description.  A  gun-rack,  on  which  were  sus- 
pended a  long  shore  gun,  a  brass-barrelled  blunderbuss,  a  cutlass, 
and  a  case  of  horse-pistols,  manifested  Mr.  Daly's  determination  to 
maintain,  if  necessary,  by  force  of  arms,  his  claim  to  the  fair  posses- 
sions which  his  honest  industry  had  acquired. 

'  Kyrle,'  said  Mr.  Daly,  putting  his  fork  into  a  breast  of  cold  goose, 
and  looking  at  his  son — '  you  had  better  let  me  put  a  little  goose ' 
[with  an  emphasis]  'on  your  plate.  You  know  you  are  going 
a- wooing  to-day.' 

The  young  gentleman  appeared  not  to  hear  him.  Mrs.  Daly, 
who  understood  more  intimately  the  nature  of  her  son's  reflections, 
deprecated,  by  a  significant  look  at  her  husband,  the  continuance 
of  any  raillery  upon  so  delicate  a  subject. 

'Kyrle,  some  coffee?'  said  the  lady  of  the  house;  but  without 
being  more  successful  in  awakening  the  attention  of  the  young 
gentleman. 

Mr.  Daly  winked  at  his  wife. 

'  Kyrle! '  he  called  aloud,  in  a  tone  against  which  even  a  lover's 
absence  was  not  proof — '  do  you  hear  what  your  mother  says  ? ' 

'  I  ask  pardon,  sir — I  was  absent,  I — what  were  you  saying, 
mother  ? ' 

'  She  was  saying,'  continued  Mr.  Daly,  with  a  smile,  '  that  you 
were  manufacturing  a  fine  speech  for  Anne  Chute,  and  that  you  were 
just  meditating  whether  you  should  deliver  it  on  your  knees,  or  out 
of  brief,  as  if  you  were  addressing  the  Bench  in  the  Four  Courts.' 

'  For  shame,  my  dear! — Never  mind  him,  Kyrle,  I  said  no  such 
thing.  I  wonder  how  you  can  say  that,  my  dear,  and  the  children 
listening.' 

'  Pooh!  the  little  angels  are  too  busy  and  too  innocent  to  pay  us 
any  attention,'  said  Mr.  Daly,  lowering  his  voice,  however.  '  But 
speaking  seriously,  my  boy,  you  take  this  affair  too  deeply  to  heart; 
and  whether  it  be  in  our  pursuit  of  wealth — or  fame — or  even  in  love 
itself,  an  extreme  solicitude  to  be  successful  is  the  surest  means  of 
defeating  its  own  object.  Besides,  it  argues  an  unquiet  and 

17 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

unresigned  condition.  1  have  had  a  little  experience,  you  know,  in 
affairs  of  this  kind,'  he  added,  smiling  and  glancing  at  his  fair  help- 
mate, who  blushed  with  the  simplicity  of  a  young  girl. 

'Ah,  sir,'  said  Kyrle,  as  he  drew  nearer  to  the  breakfast-table 
with  a  magnanimous  affectation  of  cheerfulness,  '  I  fear  I  have  not 
so  good  a  ground  for  hope  as  you  may  have  had.  It  is  very  easy, 
sir,  for  one  to  be  resigned  to  disappointment  when  he  is  certain  of 
success.' 

'  Why,  I  was  not  bidden  to  despair,  indeed,'  said  Mr.  Daly,  ex- 
tending his  hand  to  his  wife,  while  they  exchanged  a  quiet  smile, 
which  had  in  it  an  expression  of  tenderness  and  of  melancholy 
remembrance.  'I  have,  I  believe,  been  more  fortunate  than  more 
deserving  persons.  I  have  never  been  vexed  with  useless  fears  in 
my  wooing  days,  nor  with  vain  regrets  when  those  days  were  ended. 
I  do  not  know,  my  dear  lad,  what  hopes  you  have  formed,  or  what 
prospects  you  may  have  shaped  out  of  the  future,  but  I  will  not  wish 
you  a  better  fortune  than  that  you  may  as  nearly  approach  to  their 
accomplishment  as  I  have  done,  and  that  Time  may  deal  as  fairly 
with  you  as  he  has  done  with  your  father.'  After  saying  this,  Mr. 
Daly  leaned  forward  on  the  table  with  his  temple  supported  by  one 
finger,  and  glanced  alternately  from  his  children  to  his  wife;  while 
he  sang  in  a  low  tone  the  following  verse  of  a  popular  song; 

'How  should  I  love  the  pretty  creatures, 

While  round  my  knees  they  fondly  clung, 
To  see  them  look  their  mother's  features, 

To  hear  them  lisp  their  mother's  tongue! 
And  when  with  envy  Time  transported 

Shall  think  to  rob  us  of  our  joys — 
You'll  in  your  girls  again  be  courted, 

And  I '• 

with  a  glance  at  Kyrle — 

'And  I  go  wooing  with  the  boys.' 

'  And  this,'  thought  young  Kyrle,  in  the  affectionate  pause  that 
ensued, '  this  is  the  question  which  I  go  to  decide  upon  this  morning; 
whether  my  old  age  shall  resemble  the  picture  which  I  see  before 
me,  or  whether  I  shall  be  doomed  to  creep  into  the  winter  of  my 
life,  a  lonely,  selfish,  cheerless,  money-hunting  old  bachelor.  Is 
not  this  enough  to  make  a  little  solicitude  excusable,  or  pardonable 
at  least?' 

18 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'It  is  a  long  time  now,'  resumed  Mr.  Daly,  'since  I  have  had 
the  pleasure  of  meeting  Mrs.  Chute.  She  was  a  very  beautiful 
but  a  very  wild  girl  when  I  knew  her.  Nothing  has  ever  been  more 
inexplicable  to  me  than  the  choice  she  made  of  a  second  husband. 
You  never  saw  Anne's  stepfather,  Tom  Chute,  or  you  would  be 
equally  astonished.  You  saw  him,  my  love,  did  you  not?' 

Mrs.  Daly  laughed  and  answered  in  the  affirmative. 

'It  showed,  indeed,  a  singular  taste,'  said  Mr.  Daly.  'They 
tell  a  curious  story,  too,  about  the  manner  of  their  courtship.' 

'What  was  that,  sir?'  asked  Kyrle,  who  felt  a  strong  sympa- 
thetic interest  in  all  stories  connected  with  wooers  and  wooing. 

'I  have  it,  I  confess,  upon  questionable  authority — but  you 
shall  hear  it,  such  as  it  is.  Now,  look  at  that  young  thief!'  he 
added,  laughing,  and  directing  Kyrle's  attention  to  one  of  the 
children,  a  chubby  young  fellow,  who,  having  deserted  the  potato- 
eating  corps  at  the  side-table,  was  taking  advantage  of  the  deep 
interest  excited  by  the  conversation,  to  make  a  sudden  descent 
upon  the  contents  of  the  japanned  bread-basket.  Perceiving  that 
he  was  detected,  the  little  fellow  relaxed  his  fingers,  and  drew  back 
a  little,  glancing,  from  beneath  his  eyelashes,  a  half-dismayed 
and  bashful  look  at  the  laughing  countenance  of  his  parent. 

'Charles  is  not  well  to-day,'  said  the  mother  in  a  compassionate 
tone,  and  cutting  him  a  large  wedge  of  her  best  home-made  bread 
which  the  lad  began  to  demolish  with  a  degree  of  rapidity  that 
scarcely  corroborated  the  assertion. 

'But  the  story,  sir?'  said  Kyrle. 

'But  the  story — Well,  Tom  Chute  (he  might  have  been  better 
called  little  Tom-tit,  only  that  he  was  not  half  so  sprightly)  was  a 
•very  extraordinary  man,  for  although  he  was  small  and  fat,  he 
was  not  merry,  nor  talkative.  You  would  have  pitied  him  to  see 
him  walking  about  a  ball-room  with  ruffles  that  looked  like  small 
buckles,  and  a  queue  half  as  long  as  himself,  reminding  one 
of  the  handle  of  a  pump  when  the  sucker  is  up — with  the  most 
forlorn  aspect  in  the  world,  as  if  he  were  looking  for  a  runaway 
wife.  It  was  a  curious  anomaly  in  his  character  that  although  he 
— (Silence,  there!  My  dear,  will  you  speak  to  those  children) — 
that  although  he  always  looked  miserable  in  the  midst  of  society, 
he  really  was  so  when  out  of  it,  as  if  the  continued  embarrassment 
and  mortification  which  he  experienced  were  a  stimulus  which 
he  could  not  do  without.  Round,  fat,  shy,  awkward,  and  oily  as 

19 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

he  was,  however,  he  tumbled  his  little  rotund  figure  into  the  heart 
of  Mrs.  Trenchard,  who  was  at  that  time,  though  a  widow,  one  of 
the  leading  belles  in  Munster.  A  fair  friend  was  the  first  to  dis- 
close this  rapturous  secret  to  poor  Tom,  for  he  might  have  known 
Mrs.  Trenchard  for  a  century  without  being  able  to  make  it  out 
himself.  He  did  not  know  whether  he  should  be  most  frightened 
or  pleased  at  the  intelligence — but  certain  it  is  that  in  the  warmth 
of  his  first  feelings,  he  made  a  tender  of  his  hand  to  the  lady,  and 
was  instantly  accepted.  A  dashing,  handsome  fellow  who  had 
been  rejected  by  her  some  time  before,  and  who  knew  Chute's 
irresolute  temper,  resolved  to  indemnify  himself  for  the  mortifica- 
tion he  had  received  by  throwing  some  embarrassment  in  the  way 
of  the  nuptials,  and  effected  it  simply  enough.  It  seems  the  lady's 
accomplishments  were  of  a  very  general  description,  for  besides 
playing  the  harpsichord  to  admiration,  she  could  manage  a  horse 
with  any  hero  of  the  Country  Club,  and  was  known  to  join  their 
hunting  parties,  and  even  to  ride  a  steeple-chase  with  eclat.  In- 
deed, it  was  generally  admitted  that  she  possessed  more  spirit  than 
might  have  answered  her  purposes,  or  her  husband's,  either.  What 
fancy  she  could  have  taken  to  Tom  Chute,  I  cannot  for  my  life 
conceive.  Well,  this  fellow  met  Tom  going  to  her  house  one 
evening,  as  spruce  as  a  water-wagtail,  with  his  queue  poking  up 
behind  like  the  flagstaff  in  the  stern  of  a  privateer.  They  got  into 
conversation  about  the  widow.  "Beautiful  creature,  isn't  she?" 
simpered  Tom,  blushing  up  to  the  eyes,  for  it  was  another  funny 
foible  of  Tom's  to  redden  up  like  a  rose  whenever  there  was  any 
discourse  of  ladies;  even  when  nobody  dreamed  of  anything 
like  raillery.  "Beautiful creature,  isn't  she?"  says  Tom.  "Beau- 
tiful indeed,"  replied  the  other.  And  Tom  stood  on  his  toes,  threw 
out  his  right  elbow,  and  took  snuff.  "And  accomplished,  I  think  ?  " 
"And  very  sensible,"  says  the  other.  "And  lively,"  says  Tom. 
"And  high-spirited,"  says  the  other.  "So  they  say  her  late  hus- 
band found,  poor  man,  to  his  cost!"  Tom  dropped  his  jaw  a 
little,  and  looked  inquisitive.  But  the  other,  who  saw  that  his 
business  was  done,  declined  all  explanation,  and  hurried  off  with 
a  concluding  remark,  that  "the  lady  was  unquestionably  a  capi- 
tal whip."  Well,  Tom  got  a  sudden  attack  of — I  don't  know 
what  complaint,  went  home  that  night,  and  sent  an  apology  to 
the  widow.  He  was  not  seen  near  her  house  for  a  fortnight  after, 
and  a  report  reached  her  ears  that  he  had  some  notion  of  quitting 

20 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

the  country.  But  if  he  had,  she  put  a  stop  to  it.  One  morning 
when  Tom  was  looking  over  his  books,  he  was  startled  by  the 
apparition  of  a  tall  woman  in  a  riding-dress,  with  a  horsewhip 
in  one  hand,  and  a  case  of  duelling  pistols  in  the  other.  She 
nodded  to  Tom.  "I  understand,"  said  she ' 

At  this  moment,  a  potato-peel,  flung  from  the  side-table,  whisked 
past  Mr.  Daly's  nose,  and  with  happier  aim,  lighted  on  that  of 
Prince  Eugene  in  the  print  before  mentioned.  The  venerable, 
but  too  little  venerated,  story-teller,  who  had  been  for  the  last  few 
minutes  endeavouring  to  raise  his  voice,  so  as  to  make  it  audible 
above  the  increasing  uproar  of  the  young  people,  now  turned 
round,  at  this  unparalleled  and  violent  aggression,  and  confronted 
the  daring  group  in  awful  silence.  Satisfied,  however,  with  the 
sudden  hush  of  terror  which  this  action  occasioned,  and  willing 
to  reserve  the  burst  of  wrath  for  a  future  transgression,  he  turned 
again  in  silence;  and  directing  the  servant-girl  who  was  in  the 
room  to  take  the  potato-peel  off  Prince  Eugene's  nose,  he  resumed 
the  thread  of  his  narrative. 

'"I  understand,"  said  Mrs.  Trenchard — for  it  was  no  other 
than  the  widow — "that  you  intend  leaving  Ireland?"  Tom 
stammered  and  hesitated. — "If  my  brother  were  living,"  con- 
tinued the  lady,  "he  would  horsewhip  you  —  but  although  he  is 
not,  Hetty  Trenchard  is  able  to  fight  her  own  way.  Come,  sir, 
my  carriage  is  at  the  door  below;  either  step  into  it  with  me  this 
minute,  or  take  one  of  those  pistols,  and  stand  at  the  other  end 
of  the  room."  Well,  Tom  looked  as  like  a  fool  as  any  man  in 
Ireland.  He  wouldn't  fight,  and  he  wouldn't  be  horsewhipped; 
so  that  the  business  ended  in  his  going  into  the  carriage  and  marry- 
ing the  lady.  Some  persons,  indeed,  insinuated  that  Tom  was 
observed  in  the  course  of  the  day  to  chafe  his  shoulders  two  or 
three  times  with  an  expression  of  pain,  as  if  his  change  of  con- 
dition had  been  the  result  of  a  still  harsher  mode  of  reasoning 
than  I  have  mentioned;  but  this  part  of  the  story  is  without 
foundation. ' 

'What  a  bold  creature!'  said  the  gentle  Mrs.  Daly. 

'And  is  it  possible,  sir,'  asked  Kyrle,  'that  this  Amazon  is  the 
kind  old  lady  whom  Anne  Chute  attends  with  so  much  affection 
and  tenderness  in  her  infirmity  ? ' 

'Ah,  ha!  Kyrle,  I  see  the  nature  of  the  bolt  that  has  wounded 
you,  and  I  like  you  the  better  for  it,  my  boy.  A  good  face  is  a 

21 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

pippin  that  grows  on  every  hedge,  but  a  good  heart,  that  is  to 
say,  a  well-regulated  one,  is  the  apple  of  the  Hesperides,  worth 
even  the  risk  of  ease  and  life  itself.' 

Kyrle  assented  to  this  sagacious  aphorism  with  a  deep  sigh. 

'Are  the  Cregans  and  they  on  terms  now?'  asked  Mrs.  Daly. 

'As  much  on  terms  as  two  families  of  such  opposite  habits 
can  be.  The  Chutes  invite  the  Cregans  to  a  family  dinner  once 
or  twice  in  the  year,  and  the  Cregans  ask  the  Chutes  to  their  Kil- 
larney  cottage;  both  of  which  invitations  are  taken  as  French 
compliments,  and  never  accepted.  Cregan  himself  hates  going 
to  Castle  Chute,  because  he  has  nobody  there  to  make  the  jovial 
night  with  him,  and  young  Hardress  (your  friend,  Kyrle)  is  too 
wild  a  lad  to  confine  himself  to  mere  drawing-room  society. 

Apropos,  talk  of 'tis  a  vulgar  proverb,  and  let  it  pass;  but 

there  goes  his  trim  pleasure-boat,  the  Nora  Creina,  flying  down 
the  river,  and  there  sits  the  youth  himself,  tiller  in  hand,  as 
usual.  Patcy,  bring  me  the  telescope;  I  think  I  see  a  female 
dress  on  board.' 

The  telescope  was  brought,  and  adjusted  to  the  proper  focus, 
while  a  dozen  eager  faces  were  collected  about  the  small  window, 
one  over  another,  in  the  manner  of  those  groups  in  painting  called 
'Studies  of  Heads.' 

'That  is  he,  indeed,'  continued  Mr.  Daly,  resting  the  glass  on 
the  window-frame,  and  directing  it  towards  the  object  of  their 
attention — 'there  is  no  mistaking  that  dark  and  handsome  face, 
buried  up  as  it  is  in  his  huge  oiled  pent-house  hat,  and  there  is 
his  hunch-backed  boatman,  Danny  Mann,  or  Danny  the  Lord, 
as  the  people  call  him  since  his  misfortune,  tending  the  foresheet 
in  the  bow.  But  that  female — there  is  a  female  there,  unques- 
tionably, in  a  blue  mantle,  with  the  hood  brought  low  over  her 
eyes,  sitting  on  the  ballast.  Who  can  she  be?' 

'  Perhaps  Danny  Mann's  cousin,  Cotch  Coonerty,'  said  Mrs. 
Daly. 

'  Or  some  western  dealing  woman  who  has  come  up  to  Limerick 
to  purchase  a  reinforcement  of  pins,  needles,  whiskey  and  Read- 
ing-made-easys,  for  her  village  counter,  and  is  getting  a  free 
passage  home  from  young  Master  Hardress.' 

'Like  enough,  like  enough;  it  is  just  his  way. — Hillo!  the  fel- 
low is  going  to  run  down  that  fishing  cot,  I  believe!' 

A  hoarse  cry  of  'Bear  away!    Hold  up  your  hand!'  was  heard 

22 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

• 

from  the  water,  and  reiterated  with  the  addition  of  a  few  exple- 
tives, which  those  who  know  the  energy  of  a  boatman's  dialect 
will  understand  without  our  transcribing  them  here.  The  pleasure- 
boat,  however,  heedless  of  those  rough  remonstrances,  and  ap- 
parently indisposed  to  yield  any  portion  of  her  way,  still  held  her 
bowsprit  close  to  the  wind,  and  sailed  on,  paying  no  more  regard 
to  the  peril  of  the  plebeian  craft,  than  a  French  aristocrat  of  the 
•sidle  cour  might  be  supposed  to  exhibit  for  that  of  a  sans  culottes 
about  to  be  trodden  down  by  his  leaders  in  the  Rue  St.  Honore". 
The  fishermen,  with  many  curses,  backed  water,  and  put  about 
as  rapidly  as  possible;  but  without  being  able  to  avoid  the  shock 
of  the  Nora  Creina,  who  just  touched  their  stern  with  sufficient 
force  to  make  the  cot  dart  forward  nearly  an  oar's  length  through 
the  water,  and  to  lay  the  rowers  sprawling  on  their  backs  in  the 
bottom.  Fortunately  the  wind,  which  had  sprung  up  with  the 
returning  tide,  was  not  sufficiently  strong  to  render  the  concus- 
sion more  dangerous. 

'Like  his  proud  mother  in  every  feature,'  said  Mr.  Daly.  'Is 
it  not  singular  that  while  we  were  speaking  of  the  characters  of 
the  family,  he  could  not  pass  our  window  without  furnishing  us 
with  a  slight  specimen  of  his  own.  See  how  stately  the  fellow 
turns  round  and  contemplates  the  confusion  he  has  occasioned. 
There  is  his  mother's  grandeur  blended  with  the  hair-brained 
wildness  and  idle  spirit  of  his  father.' 

'Hardress  Cregan's  is  the  handsomest  boat  in  the  river,'  said 
Patcy,  a  stout,  sunburnt  boy — 'she  beat  all  the  Galway  hookers 
from  this  to  Beale.  What  a  nice  green  hull! — and  white  sails 
and  beautiful  green  colours  flying  over  the  peak  and  gaff-top- 
sail! Oh!  how  I'd  like  to  be  steering  her!' 

Mr.  Daly  winked  at  his  wife,  and  whispered  her  that  he  had 
known  Rear-Admirals  come  of  smaller  beginnings.  Mrs.  Daly, 
with  a  little  shudder,  replied  that  she  should  not  wish  to  see  him 
a  Rear- Admiral,  the  navy  was  so  dangerous  a  service.  Her  hus- 
band, in  order  to  soothe  her,  observed  that  the  danger  was  not 
very  near  at  hand. 

In  the  meantime,  Hardress  Cregan  became  a  subject  of  ve- 
hement debate  at  the  side-table,  to  which  the  juvenile  squadron 
had  returned.  One  fair-haired  little  girl  declared  that  she  was  his 
'pet.'  A  second  claimed  that  distinction  for  herself. 

'He  gave  me  an  O'Dell-cake  when  he  was  last  here,'  said  one. 

23 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'And  me  a  stick  of  peppermint.' 

'He  gave  me  a' in  a  whisper — 'a  kiss.' 

'And  me  two.' 

'He  didn't—' 

'He  did.' 

'I'll  tell  dadda  it  was  you  threw  the  potato-peel  while  ago.' 

'Ah,  ha,   tattler- tell-tale!' 

'Silence  there!  fie!  fie!  what  words  are  these?'  said  Mrs.  Daly; 
'  come,  kiss  and  be  friends,  now,  both  of  you,  and  let  me  hear  no 
more.' 

The  young  combatants  complied  with  her  injunction,  and,  as 
the  duelling  paragraphs  say,  'the  affair  terminated  amicably.' 

'But  I  was  speaking,'  Mr.  Daly  resumed,  'of  the  family  pride 
of  the  Cregans.  It  was  once  manifested  by  Hardress's  father 
in  a  manner  that  might  make  an  Englishman  smile.  When  their 
little  Killarney  property  was  left  to  the  Cregans,  amongst  many 
other  additional  pieces  of  display  that  were  made  on  that  occa- 
sion, it  behoved  Mr.  Barney  Cregan  to  erect  a  family  vault  and 
monument  in  his  parish  churchyard.  He  had  scarcely,  however, 
given  directions  for  its  construction  when  he  fell  ill  of  a  fever, 
and  was  very  near  enjoying  the  honour  of  hanselling  the  new 
cemetery  himself.  But  he  got  over  the  fit,  and  made  it  one  of 
his  first  cares  to  saunter  out  as  far  as  the  church,  and  inspect  the 
mansion  which  had  been  prepared  for  his  reception.  It  was  a 
handsome  Gothic  monument  occupying  a  retired  corner  of  the 
churchyard,  and  shadowed  over  by  a  fine  old  sycamore.  But 
Barney,  who  had  no  taste  for  the  picturesque,  was  deeply  mor- 
tified at  finding  his  piece  of  sepulchral  finery  thrown  so  much 
into  the  shade.  "What  did  I  or  my  people  do,"  he  said  to  the 
architect,  "that  we  should  be  sent  skulking  in  that  corner?  I 
paid  my  money,  and  I'll  have  my  own  value  for  it."  The 
monument  was  accordingly  got  rid  of,  and  a  sporting,  flashy  one 
erected  opposite  the  gateway,  with  the  Cregan  crest  and  shield 
(in  what  herald's  office  it  was  picked  up  I  cannot  take  upon 
me  to  say)  emblazoned  on  the  frontispiece.  Here,  it  is  to  be 
hoped,  the  aspiring  Barnaby  and  his  posterity  may  one  day  rest 
in  peace.' 

'That  would  be  a  vain  hope,  I  fear,'  said  Kyrle,  'at  least  so 
far  as  Mr.  Cregan  is  concerned,  if  it  were  true,  as  our  peasantry 
believe,  that  the  churchyard  is  frequently  made  a  scene  of  mid- 
24 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

night  mirth  and  revel  by  those  whose  earthly  carousals  are  long 
concluded.  But  what  relationship  is  there  between  that  family 
and  Mrs.  Chute?' 

'  She  is  step-sister  to  Mrs.  Cregan.' 

'Indeed?     So  near?' 

'  Most  veritable,   therefore  look    to  it.     They  tell    a  story — ' 

But  the  talkative  old  gentleman  was  interrupted  in  his  anec- 
dotical  career  by  the  entrance  of  a  new  actor  on  the  scene. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

HOW   MR.   DALY   THE   MIDDLEMAN   ROSE   UP   FROM   BREAKFAST 

BUT  what  pen  less  gifted  than  his  of  Chios,  or  his  of  Avon, 
the  delineator  of  Vulcan  or  of  Grumio,  can  suffice  to  con- 
vey to  the  reader  any  idea  of  the  mental  and  bodily  proportions 
of  this  new-comer,  who  thrust  his  small  and  shining  head  in  upon 
the  family  party,  to  awaken  their  curiosity,  and  to  rob  Mr.  Daly 
of  so  many  attentive  listeners  as  he  numbered  around  him  at  this 
moment! 

The  person  who  opened  the  door  acted  as  a  kind  of  herdsman 
or  'outdoor  servant  to  the  family,  and  was  a  man  of  a  rather  sin- 
gular appearance.  The  nether  parts  of  his  frame  were  of  a  size 
considerably  out  of  proportion  with  the  trunk  and  head  which 
they  supported.  His  feet  were  broad  and  flat  like  those  of  a  duck; 
his  legs  long  and  clumsy,  with  knees  and  ankles  like  the  knobs 
on  one  of  those  grotesque  walking-sticks,  which  were  in  fashion 
among  the  fine  gentlemen  of  our  own  day,  some  time  since;  his 
joints  hung  loosely,  like  those  of  a  pasteboard  merry-andrew; 
his  body  was  very  small;  his  chest  narrow;  and  his  head  so  di- 
minutive, as  to  be  even  too  little  for  his  herring  shoulders.  It 
seemed  as  if  nature,  like  an  extravagant  projector,  had  laid  the 
foundation  of  a  giant,  but  running  short  of  material,  as  the  struct- 
ure proceeded,  had  been  compelled  to  terminate  her  undertaking 
within  the  dimensions  of  a  dwarf.  So  far  was  this  economy  pur- 
sued, that  the  head,  small  as  it  was,  was  very  scantily  furnished 
with  hair;  and  the  nose,  with  which  the  face  was  garnished,  might 
be  compared  for  its  flatness  to  that  of  a  young  kid,  'It  looked,' 

'5 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

as  the  owner  of  this  mournful  piece  of  journey-work  himself  face- 
tiously .observed,  'as  if  his  head  were  not  thought  worth  a  roof, 
nor  his  countenance  worth  a  handle.'  His  hands  and  arms  were 
likewise  of  a  smallness  that  was  much  to  be  admired,  when  con- 
trasted with  the  hugeness  of  the  lower  members,  and  brought  to 
mind  the  fore-paws  of  a  kangaroo,  or  the  fins  of  a  seal,  the  latter 
similitude  prevailing  when  the  body  was  put  in  motion,  on  which 
occasions  they  dabbled  about  in  a  very  extraordinary  manner. 
But  there  was  one  feature  in  which  a  corresponding  prodigality 
had  been  manifested,  namely,  the  ears,  which  were  as  long  as 
those  of  Riquet  with  the  Tuft,  or  of  any  ass  in  the  Barony. 

The  costume  which  enveloped  the  singular  frame  was  no  less 
anomalous  than  was  the  nature  of  its  own  construction.  A  huge 
riding-coat  of  grey  frieze  hung  lazily  from  his  shoulders,  and  gave 
to  view  in  front  a  waistcoat  of  calf-skin  with  the  hairy  side  out- 
wards; a  shirt,  of  a  texture  almost  as  coarse  as  sailcloth,  made 
from  the  refuse  of  flax;  and  a  pair  of  corduroy  nether  garments, 
with  two  bright  new  patches  upon  the  knees.  Grey  worsted  stock- 
ings, with  dog-skin  brogues  well  paved  in  the  sole,  and  greased 
until  they  shone  again,  completed  the  personal  adornments  of 
this  unaspiring  personage.  On  the  whole,  his  appearance  might 
have  brought  to  the  recollection  of  a  modern  beholder  one  of 
those  architectural  edifices,  so  fashionable  in  our  time,  in  which 
the  artist,  with  an  admirable  ambition,  seeks  to  unite  all  that  is 
excellent  in  the  Tuscan,  Doric,  Corinthian,  and  Ionic  order,  in 
one  coup  d'ail. 

The  expression  of  the  figure,  though  it  varied  with  circum- 
stances, was  for  the  most  part  thoughtful  and  deliberate;  the 
effect  in  a  great  measure  of  habitual  penury  and  dependence.  At 
the  time  of  Lord  Halifax's  administration,  Lowry  Looby,  then 
a  very  young  man,  held  a  spot  of  ground  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Limerick,  and  was  well  to  do  in  the  world,  but  the  scarcity  which 
prevailed  in  England  at  the  time,  and  which  occasioned  a  sud- 
den rise  in  the  price  of  beef,  butter,  and  other  produce  of  grazing 
land  in  Ireland,  threw  all  the  agriculturists  out  of  their  little  hold- 
ings, and  occasioned  a  general  destitution,  similar  to  that  pro- 
duced by  the  anti-cottier  system  in  the  present  day.  Lowry  was 
amongst  the  sufferers.  He  was  saved,  however,  from  the  necessity 
of  adopting  one  of  the  three  ultimata  of  Irish  misery — begging, 
'listing,  or  emigrating— by  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Daly,  who  took 

26 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

him  into  his  service  as  a  kind  of  runner  between  his  farms,  an 
office  for  which  Lowry,  by  his  long  and  muscular  legs,  and  the 
lightness  of  the  body  that  encumbered  them,  was  qualified  in  an 
eminent  degree.  His  excelling  honesty,  one  of  the  character- 
istics of  his  country,  which  he  was  known  to  possess,  rendered 
him  a  still  more  valuable  acquisition  to  the  family  than  had  been 
at  first  anticipated.  He  had,  moreover,  the  national  talent  for 
adroit  flattery,  a  quality  which  made  him  more  acceptable  to  his 
patron  than  the  latter  would  willingly  admit,  and  every  emulsion 
of  this  kind  was  applied  under  the  disguise  of  a  simpleness  which 
gave  it  a  wonderful  efficacy. 

'Ha!  Lowry,'   said   Mr.   Daly.     'Well,   have  you   made  your 
fortune  since  you  have  agreed  with  the  postmaster?' 

Lowry  put  his  hands  behind  his  back,  looked  successively  at 
the  four  corners  of  the  room,  then  round  the  cornice,  then  cast 
his  eyes  down  at  his  feet,  turned  up  the  soles  a  little,  and  finally 
straightening  his  person,  and  gazing  on  his  master,  replied,  'To 
lose  it  I  did,  sir,  for  a  place.' 
'To  lose  what?' 

'The  place  as  postman,   sir,  through  the  country  westwards. 
Sure  there  I  was  a  gentleman  for  life  if  it  wasn't  my  luck.' 
'I  do  not  understand  you,  Lowry.' 

'I'll  tell  you  how  it  was,  masther.  Afther  the  last  postman 
died,  sir,  I  took  your  ricommendation  to  the  postmasther,  an' 
axed  him  for  the  place.  "I'm  used  to  thra veiling,  sir,"  says  I, 
"for  Misther  Daly,  over,  and — "  "Aye,"  says  he,  taking  me 
up  short,  "an'  you  have  a  good  long  pair  o'  legs,  I  see."  "Mid- 
dling, sir,"  says  I  (he's  a  very  pleasant  gentleman);  "it's  equal 
to  me  any  day,  winther  or  summer,  whether  I  go  ten  miles  or  twenty, 
so  as  I  have  the  nourishment."  "'Twould  be  hard  if  you  didn't 
get  that  anyway,"  says  he.  "Well,  I  think  I  may  as  well  give 
you  the  place,  for  I  do'n'  know  any  gentleman  that  I'd  sooner 
take  his  ricommendation  then  Misther  Daly's,  or  one  that  I'd 
sooner  pay  him  a  compliment,  if  I  could." 
'Well,  and  what  was  your  agreement?' 

'Ten  pounds  a  year,  sir,'  answered  Lowry,  opening  his  eyes, 
as   if  he  announced   something  of    wonderful    importance,  and 
speaking  in  a  loud  voice,  to  suit  the  magnitude  of  the  sum,  'be- 
sides my  clothing  and  shoes  throughout  the  year.' 
'  'Twas  very  handsome,  Lowry,' 

27 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'Handsome,  masther?  'Twas  wages  for  a  prince,  sir.  Sure 
there  I  was  a  made  gentleman  all  my  days,  if  it  wasn't  my  luck, 
as  I  said  before.' 

'Well,  and  how  did  you  lose  it?' 

'I'll  tell  you,  sir,'  answered  Lowry.  'I  was  going  over  to  the 
postmasther  yestherday,  to  get  the  Thralee  mail  from  him,  and 
to  start  off  with  myself,  on  my  first  journey.  Well  an'  good,  of 
all  the  world,  who  should  I  meet,  above  upon  the  road,  just  at 
the  turn-down  to  the  post-office,  but  that  red-headed  woman 
that  sells  the  free-stone,  in  the  streets?  So  I  turned  back.' 
'Turned  back!  for  what?' 

'Sure  the  world   knows,  masther,  that  it  isn't  lucky  to  meet  a 
red-haired  woman  an'  you  going  of  a  journey.' 
'And  you  never  went  for  the  mail-bags?' 
'Faiks  I'm  sure  I  didn't  that  day.' 
'Well,  and  the  next  morning?' 

'The  next  morning,  that's  this  morning,  when  I  went  I  found 
they  had  engaged  another  boy  in  my  place.' 
'And  you  lost  the  situation!' 

'For  this  turn,  sir,  anyway.  'Tis  luck  that  does  it  all.  Sure 
I  thought  I  was  cock-sure  of  it,  an'  I  having  the  postmasther's 
word.  But,  indeed,  if  I  meet  that  free-stone  crathur  again,  I'll 
knock  her  red  head  against  the  wall.' 

'Well,  Lowry,  this  ought  to  show  you  the  folly  of  your  super- 
stition. If  you  had  not  minded  that  woman  when  you  met  her, 
you  might  have  had  your  situation  now.' 

"Twas  she  was  hi  fault  still,  begging  your  pardon,  sir,'  said 
Lowry,  'for  sure  if  I  didn't  meet  her  at  all  this  wouldn't  have 
happened  me.' 

'Oh,'  said  Mr.  Daly,  laughing,  'I  see  that  you  are  well  provided 
against  all  argument.  I  have  no  more  to  say,  Lowry.' 

The  man  now  walked  slowly  towards  Kyrle,  and  bending  down 
with  a  look  of  solemn  importance,  as  if  he  had  some  weighty  in- 
telligence to  communicate,  he  said  —  'The  horse,  sir,  is  ready, 
this  way,  at  the  doore  abroad.' 

'  Very  well,  Lowry.     I  shall  set  out  this  instant.' 
Lowry  raised  himself  erect  again,   turned  slowly  round  and 
walked  to  the  door  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground,  and  his  hand 
raised  to  his  temple,  as  if  endeavouring  to  recollect  something  fur- 
ther which  he  had  intended  to  say. 

28 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'Lowry!'  said  Mr.  Daly,  as  the  handle  of  the  door  was  turned 
a  second  time.  Lowry  looked  round. 

'Lowry,  tell  me — did  you  see  Eily  O'Connor,  the  ropemaker's 
daughter,  at  the  fair  of  Garryowen  yesterday  ? ' 

'Ah,  you're  welcome  to  your  game,  masther.' 

*  Ton  my  word,  then,  Eily  is  a  very  pretty  girl,  Lowry,  and  I'm 
told  the  old  father  can  give  her  something  besides  her  pretty  face.' 

Lowry  opened  his  huge  mouth  (we  forgot  to  mention  that  it  was 
a  huge  one)  and  gave  vent  to  a  few  explosions  of  laughter  which 
more  nearly  resembled  the  braying  of  an  ass.  'You  are  welcome 
to  your  game,  masther,'  he  repeated; — 'long  life  to  your  honour.' 

'But  is  it  true,  Lowry,  as  I  have  heard  it  insinuated,  that  old 
Mihil  O'Connor  used,  and  still  does,  twist  ropes  for  the  use  of  the 
County  Gaol?' 

Lowry  closed  his  lips  hard,  while  the  blood  rushed  into  his  face 
at  this  unworthy  allegation.  Treating  it,  however,  as  a  new  piece 
of  the  masther's  game,'  he  laughed  and  tossed  his  head. 

'Folly*  on,  sir — folly  on.' 

'Because,  if  that  were  the  case,  Lowry,  I  should  expect  to  find 
you  a  fellow  of  too  much  spirit  to  become  connected,  even  by 
affinity,  with  such  a  calling.  A  ropemaker!  a  manufacturer  of 
rogues'  last  neckcloths — an  understrapper  to  the  gallows — a 
species  of  collateral  hangman!' 

'A'  then,  missiz,  do  you  hear  this?  And  all  rising  out  of  a  little 
ould  fable  of  a  story  that  happened  as  good  as  five  year  ago,  be- 
cause Moriarty  the  crooked  hangman  (the  thief!)  stepped  into  Mi- 
hil's  little  place  of  a  night,  and  nobody  knowen  of  him,  an'  bought 
a  cople  o  'pen'orth  o'  whip-cord  for  some  vagary  or  other  of  his  own. 
And  there's  all  the  call  Mihil  O'Connor  had  ever  to  gallowses  or 
hangmen  in  his  life.  That's  the  whole  tote  o'  their  insiniwaytions.' 

'Never  mind  your  master,  Lowry,'  said  Mrs.  Daly,  'he  is  only 
amusing  himself  with  you.' 

'Oh,  ha!  I'm  sure  I  know  it,  ma'am;  long  life  to  him,  and  'tis 
he  that's  welcome  to  his  joke.' 

'But,  Lowry ' 

'A'  heavens  bless  you  now,  masther,  an'  let  me  alone.  I'll  say 
nothing  to  you.' 

'Nay,  nay,  nay,  I  only  wanted  to  ask  you  what  sort  of  a  fair  it 
was  at  Garryowen  yesterday.' 

*  Follow. 

29 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'Middling,  sir,  like  the  small  piatees,  they  tell  me,'  said  Lowry, 
suddenly  changing  his  manner  to  an  appearance  of  serious  occu- 
pation, 'but  'tis  hard  to  make  out  what  sort  a  fair  is  when  one 
has  nothing  to  sell  himself.  I  met  a  huxter,  an'  she  told  me  'twas 
a  bad  fair  because  she  could  not  sell  her  piggins,^n'  I  met  a  pig- 
jobber,  an'  he  told  me  'twas  a  dear  fair,  pork  ran  so  high,  an'  I 
met  another  little  meagre  creatur,  a  neighbour  that  has  a  cabin 
on  the  road  above,  an'  he  said  'twas  the  best  fair  that  ever 
come  out  o'  the  sky,  because  he  got  a  power  for  his  pig.  But  Mr. 
Hardress  Cregan  was  there,  and  if  he  didn't  make  it  a  dear  fair 
to  some  of  'em,  you  may  call  me  an  honest  man.' 

'A  very  notable  undertaking  that  would  be,  Lowry.  But  how 
was  it?' 

'Some  o'  them  boys,  them  Garryowen  lads,  sir,  to  get  about 
Danny  Mann,  the  Lord,  Mr.  Hardress's  boatman,  as  he  was  comen 
down  from  Mihil's  with  a  new  rope  for  some  part  o'  the  boat,  and 
to  begin  reflecting  on  him  in  regard  o'  the  hump  on  his  back,  poor 
cratur!  Well,  if  they  did,  Masther  Hardress  heerd  'em,  and  he 
having  a  stout  blackthorn  in  his  hand,  this  way,  and  he  made  up 
to  the  foremost  of  'em.  "What's  that  your're  saying,  you  scoun- 
drel?" says  he.  "What  would  you  give  to  know?"  says  the 
other,  mighty  impudent.  Master  Hardress  made  no  more,  only 
up  with  the  stick,  and  without  saying  this  or  that,  or  by  your  leave, 
or  how  do  you  do,  he  stretched  him.  Well,  such  a  scuffle  as  began 
among  'em  was  never  seen.  They  all  fell  upon  Master  Hardress, 
but,  faix,  they  had  only  the  half  of  it,  for  he  made  his  way  through 
the  thick  of  'em  without  as  much  as  a  mark.  Aw,  indeed,  it  isn't 
a  goose  or  a  duck  they  had  to  do  with  when  they  came  across  Mr. 
Cregan  for  all.' 

'And  where  were  you  all  this  while,  Lowry?' 

'Above,  in  Mihil's  door,  standen  an'  looken  about  the  fair  for 
myself.' 

'AndEily?' 

'Ah,  hear  to  this  again,  now!  I'll  run  away  out  o'  the  place 
entirely  from  you,  masther,  that's  what  I'll  do.'  And,  suiting  the 
action  to  the  phrase,  exit  Lowry  Ldoby. 

'Well,  Kyrle,'  said  Mr.  Daly,  as  the  latter  rose  and  laid  aside 
his  chair,  'I  suppose  we  are  not  to  expect  you  back  to-night?' 

'Likely  not,  sir.  If  I  have  any  good  news  to  tell,  I  shall  send 
an  answer  by  Lowry,  who  goes  with  me;  and  if — something 

3° 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

seemed  to  stick  in  his  throat,  and  he  tried  to  laugh  it  out — 'if  I 
should  be  unsuccessful,  I  will  ride  on  to  the  dairy-farm  at  Gur- 
tenaspig,  where  Hardress  Cregan  promised  to  meet  me.' 

Mr.  Daly  wished  him  better  fortune  than  he  seemed  to  hope  for, 
and  repeated  an  old  proverb  about  a  faint  heart  and  a  fair  lady. 
The  affectionate  mother,  who  felt  the  feverishness  of  the  young 
lover's  hand  as  he  placed  it  in  hers,  and  probably  in  secret  par- 
ticipated in  his  apprehensions,  followed  him  to  the  steps  of  the 
hall-door.  He  was  already  on  horseback. 

'Kyrle,'  said  Mrs.  Daly,  smiling,  while  she  looked  up  in  his 
face  and  shaded  her  own  with  her  hand;  'remember,  Kyrle,  if 
Anne  Chute  should  play  the  tyrant  with  you,  that  there  is  many 
a  prettier  girl  in  Munster.' 

Kyrle  seemed  about  to  reply,  but  his  young  horse  became  rest- 
ive, and  as  the  gentleman  felt  rather  at  a  loss,  he  made  the  im- 
patience of  the  animal  an  apology  for  his  silence.  He  waved  his 
hand  to  the  kind  old  lady,  and  rode  away. 

'And  if  she  should  play  the  tyrant  with  you,  Kyrle,'  Mrs.  Daly 
continued  in  soliloquy,  while  she  saw  his  handsome  and  graceful 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

baptized  by  the  name  of  North-east,  the  curse  would  be  removed 
from  their  household.  Mrs.  Daly  acceded  to  the  proposition, 
adding  to  it  at  the  same  time  the  slight  precaution  of  changing  her 
nurses.  With  what  success  this  ingenious  remedy  was  attended, 
the  flourishing  state  of  Mr.  Daly's  nursery  thenceforward  suffi- 
ciently testified. 

'North-east,'  said  the  old  gentleman,  'when  was  Ireland  first 
peopled  ? ' 

'By  Partholanus,  sir,  in  anno  mundi  1956,  the  great,  great, 
great,  great,  great,  great  grandson  of  Noah.' 

'Six  greats.  Right,  my  boy.  Although  the  Cluan  Mac  Noisk 
makes  it  1969.  But  a  difference  of  a  few  years  at  a  distance  of 
nearly  four  thousand  is  not  a  matter  to  be  quarrelled  with.  Stay, 
I  have  not  done  with  you  yet.  Mr.  Tickleback  tells  me  that  you 
are  a  great  Latinist.  What  part  of  Ovid  are  you  reading  now  ? ' 

'The  Metamorphoses,  sir,  book  the  thirteenth.' 

'Ah,  poor  Ajax!  He's  an  example  and  a  warning  for  all  Irish- 
men. Well,  North-east,  Ulysses  ought  to  supply  you  with  Latin 
enough  to  answer  me  one  question.  Give  me  the  construction 
of  this :  Mater  mea  sus  est  mala,' 

The  boy  hesitated  a  moment,  laughed,  reddened  a  little,  and 
looked  at  his  mother.  'That's  a  queer  thing,  sir,'  he  said  at  last. 

'Come,  construe,  construe.' 

'My  mother  is  a  bad  sow,'  said  North-east,  laughing,  'that's 
the  only  English  I  can  find  for  it.' 

'Ah,  North-east!  Do  you  call  me  names,  my  lad?'  said  Mrs. 
Daly,  while  she  laid  aside  the  china  in  a  cupboard. 

* 'Tis  dadda  you  should  blame  ma'am;  'twas  he  said  it.  I  only 
told  him  the  English  of  it.' 

This  affair  produced  much  more  laughter  and  merriment  than 
it  was  worth.  At  length  Mr.  Daly  condescended  to  explain. 

'You  gave  me  one  construction  of  it,'  said  he,  'but  not  the  right 
one.  However,  these  things  cannot  be  learned  all  in  a  day,  and 
your  translation  was  correct,  North-east,  in  point  of  grammar,  at  all 
events.  But'  (he  continued,  with  a  look  of  learned  wisdom)  'the 
true  meaning  of  the  sentence  is  this:  Mater,  mother,  mea,  hasten, 
sus,  the  sow,  est,  eats  up  (edere,  my  boy,  not  esse),  mala,  the  apples.' 

'Oh,  it's  a  cran  I  see,'  said  the  boy,  with  some  indignation  of 
tone.  'One  isn't  obliged  to  know  crans.  I'd  soon  puzzle  you  if 
I  was  to  put  you  all  the  crans  I  know,' 

32 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'Not  so  easily  as  you  suppose,  perhaps/  said  his  father,  in  dig- 
nified alarm,  lest  his  reputation  should  suffer  in  the  eyes  of  his 
wife,  who  really  thought  him  a  profound  linguist.  'But  you  are 
a  good  boy.  Go  to  school,  North-east.  Here,  open  your  satchel.' 

The  satchel  was  opened,  a  huge  slice  of  bread  from  the  top  of 
the  pile  above-mentioned  was  dropped  into  it,  and  North-east 
set  off  south -south-west  out  of  the  house. 

'  Charles,  who  is  the  finest  fellow  in  Ireland  ? ' 

'Henry  Grattan,  sir.' 

'Why  so,  sir?' 

'  Because  he  says  we  must  have  a  free  trade,  sir.' 

'  You  shall  have  a  lump  of  sugar  with  your  bread  for  that. 
Open  your  satchel.  There.  Run  away  now  to  school.  Patcy!' 

'Sir?' 

'Patcy,  tell  me,  who  was  the  first  Lord-Lieutenant  of  Ireland 
in  the  present  reign  ? ' 

Patcy,  an  idle  young  rogue,  stood  glancing  alternately  at  the  pile 
of  bread  and  at  his  father's  face,  and  shifting  from  one  foot  to 
another  like  a  foundered  nag.  At  last  he  said  stoutly — 

'Julius  Caesar,  sir.' 

'That's  a  good  boy.  Ah,  you  young  villain,  if  I  had  asked  you 
who  won  the  last  boat-race,  or  how  many  hookers  went  by  this 
morning,  you'd  give  me  a  better  answer  than  that.  Was  it  Julius 
Caesar  sailed  round  the  revenue-cutter,  near  Tarbert,  the  other 
day?' 

'No,  sir,  it  was  Larry  Kett.' 

'I'll  engage  you  know  that.  Well,  tell  me  this,  and  I'll  forgive 
you — Who  was  the  bravest  man  you  ever  heard  of?  always  ex- 
cepting Hardress  Cregan.' 

'  Brown,  sir,  the  man  that  brought  the  Bilboa  ship  into  Youghal, 
after  making  prisoners  of  nine  Frenchmen — the  fellows,  dadda,' 
the  boy  continued,  warming  with  his  subject,  'that  were  sent  to 
take  the  vessel  into  France,  and  Brown  had  only  three  men  and 
a  boy  with  him,  and  they  retook  the  ship  and  brought  her  into 
Youghal.  But  sure  one  Irishman  was  more  than  a  match  for 
two  Frenchmen.' 

'Well,  I  perceive  you  have  some  knowledge  in  physics  and 
comparative  physiology.  There's  some  hope  of  you.  Go  to 
school.'  And  the  pile  of  bread  appeared  a  few  inches  lower. 

The  remainder  was  distributed  amongst  the  girls,  to  whom  the 

33 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

happy  father  put  questions,  in  history,  geography,  catechism, 
&c.,  proportioned  to  the  capacity  of  each.  At  length  he  descended 
to  the  youngest,  a  little  cherub  with  roses  of  three  years'  growth 
in  her  cheeks. 

'Well,  Sally,  my  pet,  what  stands  for  sugar?' 

'I,  dadda.' 

'Ah,  Sally's  a  wag,  I  see.  You  do  stand  for  it,  indeed,  and  you 
shall  get  it.  We  must  not  expect  to  force  nature,'  he  added,  look- 
ing at  his  wife  and  tossing  his  head.  '  Every  beginning  is  weak — 
and  Sam  Johnson  himself  was  as  indifferent  a  philologist  once 
in  his  day.  And  now  to  school  at  once,  darlings,  and  bring  home 
good  judgments.  Nelly  will  go  for  you  at  three  o'clock.' 

The  little  flock  of  innocents,  who  were  matched  in  size  like  the 
reeds  of  a  pandean  pipe,  'each  under  each,'  having  left  the  scene, 
Mr.  Daly  proceeded  to  dispatch  his  own  affairs,  and  possessed 
himself  of  his  hat  and  cane. 

'I'll  step  over  to  the  meadow,  my  dear — and  see  how  the  hay 
gets  on.  And  give  me  that  pamphlet  of  Hutchinson's — "Com- 
mercial Restraints" — I  promised  to  lend  it  to  Father  Malachy. 
And  let  the  stranger's  room  be  got  ready,  my  love,  and  the  sheets 
aired,  for  I  expect  Mr.  Windfall  the  tax-gatherer  to  sleep  here  to- 
night. And,  Sally,  if  Ready  should  come  about  his  pigs  that  I 
put  in  pound  last  night,  let  him  have  them  free  of  cost,  but  not 
without  giving  the  fellow  a  fright  about  them;  and  above  all,  in- 
sist upon  having  rings  in  their  noses  before  night.  My  little  lawn 
is  like  a  fallow-field  with  them.  I'll  be  back  at  five.' 

Saying  this  and  often  turning  his  head  as  some  new  commission 
rose  to  his  memory,  the  Munster  '  Middleman '  sallied  out  of  his 
house,  and  walked  along  the  gravelled  avenue,  humming  as  he 
went,  a  verse  of  the  popular  old  song — 

And  when  I  at  last  must  throw  off  this  frail  covering 

&  Which  I've  worn  for  three  score  years  and  ten, 
n  the  brink  of  the  grave  I'll  not  seek  to  keep  hovering, 
Nor  my  thread  wish  to  spin  o'er  again. 
My  face  in  the  glass  I'll  serenely  survey, 

And  with  smiles  count  each  wrinkle  and  furrow, 
For  this  old  worn-out  stuff  that  is  threadbare  to-day, 
May  become  everlasting  to-morrow. 

To-morrow !     To-morrow ! 
May  become  everlasting  to-morrow ! ' 

Such,  in  happier  days  that  ours,  was  the  life  of  a  Munsler 
farmer.  Indeed,  the  word  is  ill-adapted  to  convey  to  an  English 

34 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

reader  an  idea  of  the  class  of  persons  whom  it  is  intended  to  des- 
ignate, for  they  were  and  are,  in  mind  and  education,  far  superior 
to  the  persons  who  occupy  that  rank  in  most  other  countries.  Op- 
probrious as  the  term  'middleman'  has  been  rendered  in  our  own 
time,  it  is  certain  that  the  original  formation  of  the  sept  was  both 
natural  and  beneficial.  When  the  country  was  deserted  by  its 
gentry,  a  general  promotion  of  one  grade  took  place  amongst 
those  who  remained  at  home.  The  farmers  became  gentlemen, 
and  the  labourers  became  farmers,  the  former  assuming,  together 
with  the  station  and  influence,  the  quick  and  honourable  spirit, 
the  love  of  pleasure,  and  the  feudal  authority  which  distinguished 
their  aristocratic  archetypes — while  the  humbler  classes  looked 
up  to  them  for  advice  and  assistance,  with  the  same  feeling  of 
respect  and  of  dependence  which  they  had  once  entertained  for 
the  actual  proprietors  of  the  soil.  The  covetousness  of  landlords 
themselves,  in  selling  leases  to  the  highest  bidder,  without  any 
inquiry  into  his  character  or  fortunes,  first  tended  to  throw  impu- 
tations on  this  respectable  and  useful  body  of  men,  which  in  prog- 
ress of  time  swelled  into  a  popular  outcry,  and  ended  in  an  act 
of  the  legislature  for  their  gradual  extirpation.  There  are  few 
now  in  that  class  as  prosperous,  many  as  intelligent  and  high- 
principled,  as  Mr.  Daly. 


CHAPTER  V 

HOW   KYRLE    DALY   RODE   OUT    TO    WOO,  AND  HOW  LOWRY 
LOOBY   TOLD    TTTM    SOME    STORIES    ON    THE    WAY 

KYRLE  DALY  had  even  better  grounds  than  he  was  willing 
to  insist  upon  for  doubting  his  success  with  Anne  Chute. 
He  had  been  introduced  to  her  for  the  first  time  in  the  course  of 
the  preceding  spring,  at  an  Assize-ball,  and  thought  her,  with  jus- 
tice, the  finest  girl  in  the  room;  he  danced  two  sets  of  country- 
dances  (Ah!  ces  beaux  jours!}  with  her,  and  was  ravished  with  her 
manners;  he  saw  her  home  at  night,  and  left  his  heart  behind  him 
when  he  bade  her  farewell. 

The  conquest  of  his  affections  might  not  have  been  so  perma- 
nent as  to  disturb  his  quiet,  had  it  not  been  quickly  followed  by 

35 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

that  of  his  reason  likewise.  His  subsequent  acquaintance  with 
the  young  lady  produced  a  confirmation  of  his  first  impressions, 
from  which  he  neither  sought  nor  hoped  to  be  delivered.  The 
approbation  of  his  parents  fixed  the  closing  rivet  in  the  chain  which 
bound  him.  Mrs.  Daly  loved  Anne  Chute  for  her  filial  tenderness 
and  devotion,  and  Mr.  Daly,  with  whom  portionless  virtue  would 
have  met  but  a  tardy  and  calm  acceptance,  was  struck  motion- 
less when  he  heard  that  she  was  to  have  the  mansion  and  demesne 
of  Castle  Chute,  which  he  knew  had  been  held  by  her  father's 
family  at  a  pepper-corn  rent.  Insomuch  that  Kyrle  might  have 
said  with  Lubin  in  the  French  comedy,  'II  ne  tiendra  qu'a  elle 
que  nous  ne  soyons  marie's  ensemble.' 

Nothing,  however,  in  the  demeanour  of  the  young  lady  led  him 
to  believe  that  their  acquaintance  would  be  likely  to  terminate  in 
such  a  catastrophe.  It  was  true  she  liked  him,  for  Kyrle  was  a 
popular  character  amongst  all  his  fair  acquaintances.  He  had, 
in  addition  to  his  handsome  appearance,  that  frank  and  cheerful 
manner,  not  unmingled  with  a  certain  degree  of  tenderness  and 
delicacy,  which  is  said  to  be  most  successful  in  opening  the  way 
to  the  female  heart.  Good  nature  spoke  in  his  eyes,  in  his  voice, 
and  in  'the  laughter  of  his  teeth,' — and  he  carried  around  him  a 
certain  air  of  ease  and  freedom,  governed  by  that  happy  and 
instinctive  discretion  which  those  who  affect  the  quality  in  vain 
attempt  to  exercise,  and  always  overstep.  But  he  could  not 
avoid  seeing  that  it  was  as  a  mere  acquaintance  he  was  esteemed 
by  Miss  Chute,  an  intimate,  familiar,  and,  he  sometimes  flattered 
himself,  a  valued  one,  but  still  a  mere  acquaintance.  She  had 
even  received  some  of  his  attentions  with  a  coldness  intentionally 
marked,  but  as  an  elegant  coldness  formed  a  part  of  her  general 
manner,  the  lover,  with  a  lover's  willing  blindness,  would  not 
receive  those  intimations  as  he  at  first  thought  they  were 
intended. 

When  the  affections  are  once  deeply  impressed  with  the  image 
of  beauty,  everything  in  nature  that  is  beautiful  to  the  eyes,  musi- 
cal to  the  ears,  or  pleasing  to  any  of  the  senses,  awakens  a  sympa- 
thetic interest  within  the  heart,  and  strengthens  the  impression 
under  which  it  languishes.  The  loveliness  of  the  day,  and  of  the 
scenes  through  which  he  passed,  occasioned  a  deep  access  of  pas- 
sion in  the  breast  of  our  fearful  wooer.  The  sky  was  mottled 
over  with  those  bright  clouds  which  sailors,  who  look  on  them  as 

36 


THE    COLLEGIANS 

ominous  of  bad  weather,  term  mackerel,  large  masses  of  vapour 
lay  piled  above  the  horizon,  and  the  deep  blue  openings  overhead 
which  were  visible  at  intervals,  appeared  streaked  with  a  thin  and 
drifted  mist  which  remained  motionless,  while  the  clouds  under- 
neath were  driven  fast  across  by  a  wind  that  was  yet  unfelt  on 
earth. 

The  wooded  point  of  land  which  formed  the  site  of  Castle  Chute, 
projected  considerably  into  the  broad  river,  at  a  distance  of  many 
miles  from  the  road  on  which  he  now  travelled,  and  formed  a 
point  of  view,  on  which  the  eye,  after  traversing  the  extent  of  water 
which  lay  between,  reposed  with  much  delight.  Several  small 
green  islands,  and  rocks,  black  with  sea-weed,  and  noisy  with  the 
unceasing  cry  of  sea-fowl,  diversified  the  surface  of  the  stream, 
while  the  shores  were  clothed  in  that  graceful  variety  of  shade, 
and  light,  and  hue  which  is  peculiar  to  the  season.  As  Kyrle, 
with  the  fidelity  of  a  lover's  eye,  fixed  his  gaze  on  the  point  of 
land  above  mentioned,  and  on  the  tall  castle  which  over-topped 
the  elms,  and  was  reflected  in  the  smooth  and  shining  waters 
underneath,  he  saw  a  white-sailed  pleasure-boat  glide  under  its 
walls,  and  stand  out  again  into  the  bed  of  the  river.  A  sudden 
flash  shot  from  her  bow,  and  after  the  lapse  of  a  few  seconds,  the 
report  of  a  gun  struck  upon  his  ear.  At  the  same  moment,  the  green 
flag  which  hung  at  the  peak  of  the  boat,  was  lowered  in  token  of 
courtesy,  and  soon  after  hoisted  again  to  its  former  position.  Kyrle, 
who  recognized  the  Nora  Creina,  felt  a  sudden  hurry  in  his  spirits 
at  the  sight  of  this  telegraphic  communion  with  the  family  of 
his  beloved.  The  picture  instantly  rushed  into  his  mind  of  the 
effects  produced  by  this  incident  in  the  interior  of  Castle  Chute; — 
Anne  Chute  looking  up,  and  starting  from  her  work-table;  her 
mother  leaning  on  her  gold-headed  cane,  and  rising  with  difficulty 
from  her  easy-chair,  to  move  towards  the  window;  the  cross  old 
steward,  Dan  Dawley,  casting  a  grum  side  glance  from  his  desk, 
through  the  hall- window;  the  housemaid,  Syl  Carney,  pausing, 
brush  in  hand,  and  standing  like  an  evoked  spirit  in  a  cloud  of  dust 
to  gape  in  admiration  of  the  little  pageant;  the  lifting  of  the  sash, 
and  the  waving  of  a  white  handkerchief  in  answer  to  the  greeting 
from  the  water.  But  could  it  be  visible  at  that  distance  ?  He  put 
spurs  to  his  horse  and  rode  forward  at  a  brisker  rate. 

The  figure  of  Lowry  Looby,  moving  forward  at  a  sling  trot  on 
the  road  before  him,  was  the  first  object  that  directed  his  attention 

37 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

from  the  last-mentioned  incident,  and  turned  hi§  thoughts  into 
a  merrier  channel.  The  Mercury  of  the  cabins,  with  a  hazel  stick 
for  his  harpe  and  a  pair  of  well-paved  brogues  for  his  talaria, 
jogged  forward  at  a  rate  which  obliged  his  master  to  trot  at  the 
summit  of  his  speed  in  order  to  overtake  him.  He  carried  the 
skirts  of  his  great  frieze  'riding-coat'  under  his  arm,  and  moved 
— or  more  properly,  sprang  forward,  throwing  out  his  loose-jointed 
legs  forcibly  and  with  such  a  careless  freedom,  that  it  seemed  as 
if  when  once  he  lifted  his  foot  from  the  ground  he  could  not  tell 
where  it  would  descend  again.  His  hat  hung  so  far  back  on  his 
head  that  the  disk  of  the  crown  was  fully  visible  to  his  followers, 
while  his  head  was  so  much  in  the  rear  of  his  shoulders,  and  moved 
from  side  to  side  with  such  a  jaunty  air,  that  it  seemed  at  times  as 
if  the  owner  had  a  mind  to  leave  it  behind  him  altogether.  In  his 
right  hand,  fairly  balanced  in  the  centre,  he  held  the  hazel  stick 
before  alluded  to,  while  he  half  hummed,  half  sung  aloud  a  verse 
of  a  popular  ballad: — 

'Bryan  O'Lynn  had  no  small-clothes  to  wear, 
He  cut  up  a  sheepskin  to  make  him  a  pair; 
With  the  skinny  side  out,  and  the  woolly  side  in, 
".Tis  pleasant  and  cool,"  says  Bryan  O'Lynn.' 

'Lowry!'  shouted  Kyrle  Daly. 

'Going,  sir!' 

'Going!  I  think  you  are  going,  and  at  a  pretty  brisk  rate  too; — 
you  travel  merrily,  Lowry.' 

'Middlen',  sir,  middlen';  as  the  world  goes.  I  sing  for  com- 
pany, ever  and  always,  when  I  go  a  long  road  by  myself,  an'  I 
find  it  a  dale  pleasanter  and  lighter  on  me.  Equal  to  the  lark, 
that  the  louder  he  sings,  the  higher  he  mounts,  it's  the  way  with 
me  an'  I  travellen',  the  lighter  my  heart,  the  faster  the  road  slips 
from  under  me. 

"I  am  a  bold  bachelor,  airy  and  free, 
Both  cities  and  counties  are  equal  to  me: 
Among  the  fair  females  of  every  degree 
I  care  not  how  long  I  do  tarry.  "-- 

'Lowry,  what  do  you  think  of  the  day?' 

'What  do  I  think  of  it,  sir?  I'm  thinken"twill  rain,  an'  I'm 
sorry  for  it,  an'  the  masther's  hay  out  yet.  There's  signs  o'  wind 

38 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

an'  rain.  The  forty  days  arn't  out  yet,  and  there  was  a  sighth  o' 
rain  the  last  Saint  Sweeten.'  And  he  again  resumed  his  mel<|dy, 
suffering  it  to  sink  and  swell  in  a  manner  alternately  distinct  and 
inarticulate,  with  a  slight  mixture  of  that  species  of  enunciation 
which  Italians  term  the  voice  of  the  head: — 

'I  never  will  marry  while  youth's  at  my  side, 
For  my  heart  it  is  light  and  the  world  is  wide, 
I'll  ne'er  be  a  slave  to  a  haughty  old  bride, 
To  curb  me  and  keep  me  uneasy.' 

'And  why  should  last  Saint  Sweeten  have  anything  to  do  with 
this  day  ? ' 

'  Oyeh,  then,  sure  enough,  sir.  But  they  tell  an  ould  fable  about 
Saint  Sweeten  when  he  was  first  buried — ' 

'  Why,  was  he  buried  more  than  once,  Lowry  ?  ' 

'  Ayeh,  hear  to  this!  Well,  well, — 'tis  maken'  a  hand  o'  me  your 
honour  is  fairly,  kind  father  for  you.  He  was,  then,  buried  more 
than  once,  if  you  go  to  that  of  it.  He  was  a  great  saint  living,  and 
had  a  long  berrin  when  he  died,  and  when  they  had  the  grave  dug 
an'  were  for  putten'  him  into  it,  the  sky  opened  an'  it  kep  poweren 
rain  for  the  bare  life,  an'  stopped  so  for  forty  days  an'  nights — ' 

'  And  they  couldn't  bury  him  ? ' 

'  An'  they  coludn't  bury  him,  till  the  forty  days  were  over — ' 

'He  had  a  long  wake,  Lowry.' 

'Believe  it,  sir.  But  ever  since  that,  they  remark,  whatever 
way  Saint  Sweeten's  day  is,  it's  the  same  way  for  forty  days  after. 
You  don't  believe  that,  sir,  now?' 

'Indeed,  I  am  rather  doubtful.' 

'See  that  why!  Why  then,  I  seen  a  schoolmaster  westwards  that 
had  as  much  Latin  an'  English  as  if  he  had  swallowed  a  diction- 
ary, an'  he'd  outface  the  world  that  it  was  as  true  as  you're  going 
the  road  this  minute.  But  the  quollity  doesn't  give  in  to  them 
things  at  all.  Heaven  be  with  ould  times!  There  is  nothen' 
at  all  there  as  it  used  to  be,  Master  Kyrle.  There  isn't  the  same 
weather  there,  nor  the  same  peace,  nor  comfort,  nor  as  much 
money,  nor  as  strong  whiskey,  nor  as  good  piatees,  nor  the  gentle- 
men isn't  so  pleasant  in  themselves,  nor  the  poor  people  so  quiet, 
nor  the  boys  so  divarten',  nor  the  girls  so  coaxen',  nor  nothen'  at 
all  is  there  as  it  used  to  be  formerly.  Hardly,  I  think,  the  sun 
shines  as  bright  in  the  day,  an'  nothen'  shows  itself  now  by  night, 
neither  spirits  nor  good  people.  In  them  days,  a  man  couldn't 

39 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

go  a  lonesome  road  at  night  without  meeten'  things  that  would 
make  the  hair  of  his  head  stiffen  equal  to  bristles.  Now  you  might 
ride  from  this  to  Dingle  without  seeing  anything  uglier  than  your- 
self on  the  way,  But  what  help  for  it  ? 

'  "Once  in  fair  England  my  Blackbird  did  flourish, 
He  was  the  chief  flower  that  in  it  did  spring; 
Prime  ladies  of  honour  his  person  did  nourish, 
Because  that  he  was  the  true  son  of  a  king. 
But  this  false  fortune. 
Which  still  is  uncertain, 

Has  caused  this  long  parting  between  him  an'  me, 
His  name  I'll  advance, 
In  Spain  an'  in  France, 
An'  seek  out  my  Blackbird  wherever  he  be."  1 


'An'  you  wouldn't  b'lieve  now,  Masther  Kyrle,  that  anything 
does  be  showen'  itself  at  night  at  all  ?  or  used  to  be  of  ould  ? ' 

'It  must  be  a  very  long  while  since,  Lowry.' 

'Why,  then,  see  this,  sir.  The  whole  counthry  will  tell  you,  that 
after  Mr.  Chute  died,  the  ould  man  of  all,  Mr.  Tom's  father,  you 
heerd  of  him  ? ' 

'I  recollect  to  have  heard  of  a  fat  man,  that — ' 

'Fat!'  exclaimed  Lowry,  in  a  voice  of  surprise;  'you  may  say 
fat.  There  isn't  that  doore  on  hinges  that  he'd  pass  in,  walken' 
with  a  fair  front,  widout  he  turned  sideways  or  skamed  in,  one 
way  or  another.  You  an'  I,  an'  another  along  wid  us,  might  be 
made  out  o'  the  one  half  of  him,  aisy.  His  body-coat,  when  he 
died,  med  a  whole  shoot  for  Dan  Dawley  the  steward,  besides  a 
jacket  for  his  little  boy;  an'  Dan  was  no  fishing-rod  that  time,  I 
tell  you.  But  any  way,  fat  or  lain,  he  was  buried,  an'  the  world 
will  tell  you,  that  he  was  seen  rising  a  fortnight  after  be  Dan  Daw- 
ley,  in  the  shape  of  a  drove  o'  young  pigs.' 

'A  whole  drove? ' 

'A  whole  drove.  An'  'tisn't  lain,  lanky  caishes  of  store  pigs 
either,  only  fat,  fit  for  bacon.  He  was  passen'  the  forge,  near 
the  ould  gate,  an'  the  moon  shinen'  as  bright  as  silver,  when  he 
seen  him  comen'  again'  him  on  the  road.  Sure  he  isn't  the  same 
man  ever  since.' 

'Dan  Dawley  is  not  easily  caught  by  appearances.  What  a 
sharp  eye  he  must  have  had,  to  recognize  his  master  under  such 
a  disguise!' 

40 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'Oyeh,  he  knew  well  what  was  there.  'Tisn't  the  first  time 
with  Dan  Dawley  seeing  things  o'  the  kind.  Didn't  you  ever  hear 
what  happened  Dan,  in  regard  of  his  first  wife,  sir?' 

'No.' 

'Well,  aisy,  an'  I'll  tell  you.  Dan  was  married  to  a  girl  o'  the 
Hayeses,  a  very  inthricate  little  creature,  that  led  him  a  mighty 
unaisy  life  from  the  day  they  married,  out.  Well,  it  was  Dan's 
luck  she  got  a  stitch  an'  died  one  mornen',  an'  if  she  did,  Dan 
made  a  pilliloo  an'  a  lavo  over  her,  as  if  he  lost  all  belongen'  to 
him.  They  buried  her,  for  all,  an'  Dan  was  sitten'  in  his  own 
doore,  and  he  twisten'  a  gad  to  hang  a  little  taste  o'  bacon  he  had, 
an'  he  singen'  the  Roving  Journeyman  for  himself,  when,  tundther 
alive!  who  should  walk  in  the  doore  to  him,  only  his  dead  wife,  an' 
she  living  as  well  as  ever!  Take  it  from  me  he  didn't  stay  long 
where  he  was.  "E'  is  that  you,  Cauth?"  says  he.  "The  very 
one,"  says  she;-  "how  does  the  world  use  you,  Dan?"  "Wisha, 
middlen',"  says  Dan  again.  "I  didn't  think  we'd  see  you  any 
more,  Cauth,"  says  he.  "Nor  you  wouldn't,  either,"  says  she, 
"only  for  yourself."  "Do  you  tell  me  so?"  says  Dan  Dawley; 
"how  was  that?"  "There  are  two  dogs,"  says  she,  "that  are 
sleeping  on  the  road  I  was  going  in  the  other  world,  an'  the  noise 
you  made  cryen'  over  me  wakened  'em,  an'  they  riz  again'  me, 
and  wouldn't  let  me  pass."  "See  that  why!"  says  Dan,  grin- 
ning, "warn't  they  the  conthrairy  pair?"  Well,  after  another 
twelvemonth  Cauth  died  the  second  time;  but  I'll  be  your  bail, 
it  was  long  from  Dan  Dawley  to  cry  over  her  this  turn  as  he  did  at 
first.  'Twas  all  his  trouble  to  see  would  he  keep  the  women  at 
the  wake  from  keening  over  the  dead  corpse,  or  doing  anything  in 
life  that  would  waken  the  dogs.  Signs  on,  she  passed  'em,  for  he 
got  neither  tale  nor  tiden'sof  her,  from  that  day  to  this.  "Poor 
Cauth?"  says  Dan,  "why  should  I  cry,  to  have  them  dogs  tearen' 
her,  maybe!"' 

'Dan  Dawley  was  a  lucky  man,'  said  Kyrle.  'Neither  Orpheus 
nor  Theseus  had  so  much  to  say  for  themselves  as  he  had.' 

'I  never  hear  talks  o'  them  gentlemen,  sir.  Wor  they  o'  these 
parts  ? ' 

'  Not  exactly.  One  of  them  was  from  the  county  of  Attica,  and 
the  other  from  the  county  Thrace.' 

'I  never  hear  of  'em.  I  partly  guessed  they  wor  strangers,' 
Lowry  continued  with  much  simplicity;  'but  anyway  Dan 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

Dawley  was  a  match  for  the  best  of  'em,  an'  a  luckier  man 
than  I'  told  you  yet,  moreover,  that's  hi  the  first  beginnen'  of  his 
days.' 

At  this  moment,  a  number  of  smart  young  fellows,  dressed  out 
in  new  felt  hats,  clean  shoes  and  stockings  with  ribands  flying  at 
the  knees,  passed  them  on  the  road.  They  touched  their  hats 
respectfully  to  Mr.  Daly,  while  they  recognized  his  attendant  by 
a  nod,  a  smile,  and  a  familiar  'Is  that  the  way,  Lowry?' 

•'The  very  way,  then,  lads,'  said  Lowry,  casting  a  longing  look 
after  them.  '  Going  to  Garryowen  they  are  now,  divarten  for  the 
night,'  he  added  in  a  half-envious  tone,  after  which  he  threw  the 
skirt  of  his  coat  from  the  left  to  the  right  arm,  looked  down  at  his 
feet,  struck  the  ground  with  the  end  of  his  stick,  and  trotted  on, 
singing, 

'  I'm  noted  for  dancen'  a  jig  in  good  order, 

A  min'et  I'd  march,  an'  I'd  foot  a  good  reel, 

In  a  country -dance  still  I'd  be  the  leading  partner, 

I  ne'er  faultered  yet  from  a  crack  on  the  heel. 

My  heart  is  with  ye,  boys,  this  night.  But  I  was  tellen'  you,  Mas- 
ter Kyrle,  about  Dan  Dawley's  luck!  Listen  hether.' 

He  dried  his  face,  which  was  glistening  with  moisture  and 
flushed  with  exercise,  in  his  frieze  coat,  and  commenced  his  story. 

'  'Tisn't  in  Castle  Chute  the  family  lived  always,  sir,  only  in  ould 
Mr.  Chute's  time,  he  built  it,  an'  left  the  fort  above,  an'  I'll  tell 
you  for  what  raison.  The  ould  man  of  all  that  had  the  fort  before 
him,  used  to  be  showing  himself  there  at  night,  himself  an'  his 
wife,  an'  his  two  daughters,  an'  a  son,  an'  there  were  the  strangest 
noises  ever  you  hear,  going  on  above-stairs.  The  master  had 
six  or  seven  sarvints,  one  after  another,  stopping  up  to  watch  him, 
but  there  isn't  one  of  'em  but  was  killed  by  the  spirit.  Well,  he 
was  forced  to  quit  at  last  on  the  'count  of  it,  an'  it  is  then  he 
built  Castle  Chute,  the  new  part  of  it,  where  Miss  Anne  and 
the  ould  lady  lives  now.  Well  an'  good,  if  he  did,  he  was  standen' 
one  mornen,  oppozzit  his  own  gate  on  the  roadside,  out,  an'  the 
sun  shining,  an'  the  birds  singen'  for  themselves  in  the  bushes, 
when  who  should  he  see  only  Dan  Dawley,  an'  he  a  little  gaffer 
the  same  time,  serenaden'  down  the  road  for  the  bare  life.  "Where 
to  now,  lad?"  says  Mr.  Chute  (he  was  a  mighty  pleasant  man). 
"Looken"  for  a  master,  then,"  says  Dan  Dawley.  "Why  then, 

42 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

never  go  past  this  gate  for  him,"  says  Mr.  Chute,  "if  you'll  do 
what  I  bid  you,"  says  he.     "What's  that,  sir?"  says  the  boy.    So 
he  up  an'  told  him  the  whole  story  about  the  fort,  an'  how  some- 
thing used  to  be  showen'  itself  there,  constant,  in  the  dead  hour  o' 
the  night;   "an'  have  you  the  courage,"  says  he,  "to  sit  up  a  night 
an'  watch  it?"     "What  would  I  get  by  it?"  says  Dan,  looking 
him  up  in  the  face.     "I'll  give  you  twenty  guineas  in  the  mornen', 
an*  a  table  an'  a  chair,  an'  a  pint  o'  whiskey,  an'  a  fire,  an'  a  candle, 
an'   your  dinner  before  you  go,"  says  Mr.  Chute.     "Never  say 
it  again,"  says  the  gorsoon,  "  'tis  high  wages  for  one  night's  work, 
an'  I  never  yet  done,"  says  he,  "anything  that  would  make  me 
in  dread  o'  the  living  or  the  dead;   or  afraid  to  trust  myself  into 
the  hands  o'  the  Almighty."     "Very  well,  away  with  you,"  says 
the  gentleman,  "an'  I'll  have  your  life  if  you  tell  me  a  word  of  a 
lie  in  the  mornen',"  says  he.     "I  will  not,  sir,"  says  the  boy,  "for 
what?"     Well,  he  went  there,  an'  he  drew  the  table  a-near  the 
fire  for  himself,  an'  got  his  candle,  an'  began  readen'  his  book. 
'Tis  the  lonesomest  place  you  ever  see.     Well!  that  was  well  an' 
good,  'till  he  heerd  the  greatest  racket  that  ever  was,  going  on 
above-stairs,  as  if  all  the  slates  on  the  roof  were  fallen.     "I'm  in 
dread,"  says  Dan,  "that  these  people  will  do  me  some  bad  hurt," 
says  he.     An'  hardly  he  said  the  word,  when  the  doore  opened 
and  in  they  all  walked,  the  ould  gentleman  with  a  great  big  wig 
on  him,  an'  the  wife,  an'  the  two  daughters,  an'  the  son.     Well, 
they  all  put  elbows  upon  themselves,  an'  stood  looken'  at  him  out 
in  the  middle  o'  the  floore.     He  said  nothen',  an'  at  last,  when 
they  were  tired  o'  looken',  they  went  out  an'  walked  the  whole 
house,  an'  went  up-stairs  again.  The  gentleman  came  in  the  mornen' 
early.     "  Good  morrow,  good  boy,"  says  he.     "  Good  morrow,  sir," 
says  the  boy.     "I  had  a  dale  o'  fine  company  here  last  night," 
says  he,  "ladies  an'  gentlemen."     "It's  a  lie  you  are  tellen'  me," 
says  Mr.  Chute.     "'Tis  not  a  word  of  a  lie,  sir,"  says  Dan;  "there 
was  an  ould  gentleman  with  a  big  wig,  an'  an  ould  lady,  an'  two 
young  ones,  an'  a  young  gentleman,"  says  he.     "True  for  you," 
says  Mr.  Chute,  putten'  a  hand  into  his  pocket,  an'  reachen'  him 
twinty  guineas.     "Will  you  stay  here  another  night?"  says  he. 
"I  will,"  sir,  says  Dan.     Well,  he  went  walken'  about  the  fields 
for  himself,  an'  when  night  come — ' 

'  You  may  pass  over  the  adventures  of  the  second  night,  Lowry,' 
says  Kyrle,  'for  I  suspect  that  nothing  was  effected  until  the  third.' 

43 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'Why  then,  you  just  guessed  it,  sir.  Well,  the  third  night  he 
said  to* himself,  "Escape  how  I  can,"  says  he,  "I'll  speak  to  that 
ould  man  with  the  wig,  that  does  be  putten'  an  elbow  on  himself 
an'  looken'  at  me!"  Well,  the  ould  man  an'  all  of  'em  came  and 
stood  oppozzit  him  with  elbows  on  'em  as  before.  Dan  got  fright- 
ened, seeing  'em  stop  so  long  in  the  one  place,  and  the  ould  man 
looken'  so  wicked  (he  was  after  killing  six  or  seven,  in  the  same 
fort),  an'  he  went  down  on  his  two  knees,  an'  he  put  his  hands 
together,  an',  says  he-—' 

A  familiar  incident  of  Irish  pastoral  life  occasioned  an  inter- 
ruption in  this  part  of  the  legend.  Two  blooming  country  girls, 
their  hair  confined  with  a  simple  black  riband,  their  cotton  gowns 
pinned  up  in  front,  so  as  to  disclose  the  greater  portion  of  the  blue 
stuff  petticoat  underneath,  and  their  countenances  bright  with 
health  and  laughter,  ran  out  from  a  cottage  door  and  intercepted 
the  progress  of  the  travellers.  The  prettier  of  the  two  skipped 
across  the  road,  holding  between  her  fingers  a  worsted  thread, 
while  the  other  retained  between  her  hands  the  large  ball  from 
which  it  had  been  unwound.  Kyrle  paused,  too  well  acquainted 
with  the  country  customs  to  break  through  the  slender  impediment. 

'Pay  your  footing,  now,  Master  Kyrle  Daly,  before  you  go  far- 
ther,' said  one. 

'Don't  overlook  the  wheel,  sir,'  added  the  girl  who  remained 
next  the  door. 

Kyrle  searched  his  pocket  for  a  shilling,  while  Lowry,  with  a 
half-smiling,  half-censuring  face,  murmured — 

'Why,  then,  heaven  send  you  sense,  as  it  is  it  ye  want  this 
mornen'. 

'And  you  manners,  Mr.  Looby.  Single  your  freedom,  an' 
double  your  distance,  I  beg  o'  you.  Sure  your  purse,  if  you  have 
one,  is  safe  in  your  pocket.  Long  life  an'  a  good  wife  to  you, 
Master  Kyrle,  and  I  wisht  I  had  a  better  hould  than  this  o'  you. 
I  wisht  you  were  in  looze,  an'  that  I  had  the  finding  o'  you  this 
mornen'.' 

So  saying,  while  she  smiled  merrily  on  Kyrle,  and  darting  a 
scornful  glance  at  Lowry  Looby,  she  returned  to  her  woolen  wheel, 
singing  as  she  twirled  it  round; 

'I  want  no  lectures  from  a  learned  master, 

He  may  bestow  them  on  his  silly  train — 
I'd  sooner  walk  through  my  blooming  garden, 
An'  hear  the  whistle  of  my  jolly  swain.' 

44 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

To  which  Lowry,  who  received  the  lines,  as  they  were  prob- 
ably intended,  in  a  satirical  sense,  replied,  as  he  trotted  forwards, 
in  the  same  strain: 

'Those  dressy  an'  smooth-faced  young  maidens, 

Who  now  looks  at  present  so  gay, 
Has  borrowed  some  words  o'  good  English, 

An'  knows  not  one  half  what  they  say. 
No  female  is  fit  to  be  married, 

Nor  fancied  by  no  man  at  all, 
But  those  who  can  sport  a  drab  mantle, 

An'  likewise  a  cassimere  shawl. 

'Hoop-whisk!  Why  then,  she's  a  clean-made  little  girl  for  all, 
isn't  she,  Master  Kyrle?  But  I  was  tellen'  you — where's  this  I 
was?  Iss  just.  Dan  Dawley  going  on  his  knees  an'  talking  to 
the  sperrit.  Well!  he  raised  his  two  hands  this  way,  an'  "The 
Almighty  be  betune  you  an'  me  this  night,"  says  he.  "Ah!  that's 
my  good  boy,"  says  the  ould  man.  "I  was  waiting  these  three 
nights  to  have  you  speak  first,  an'  if  you  hadn't  that  time,  I'd  have 
your  life  equal  to  all  the  others,"  says  he.  "But  come  with  me 
now,  an'  I'll  make  a  gentleman  o'  you,  for  you're  the  best  boy 
that  ever  I  see,"  says  he.  Well,  the  boy  got  a  trembling,  an'  he 
couldn't  folly  him.  "Don't  be  one  bit  afeerd  o'  me,"  says  the 
ould  gentleman,  "for  I  won't  do  you  a  ha'porth  o'  hurt."  Well, 
he  carried  Dan  after  him  through  the  house,  an'  he  showed  him 
three  crocks  o'  goold  buried  behind  a  doore,  an'  "D'ye  hear  to 
me  now,"  says  he,  "tell  my  son  to  give  one  o'  these  crocks  to  my 
daughter,  an'  another  to  you,  an'  to  keep  the  third  himself;  an' 
then  I  won't  show  myself  this  way  any  more,"  says  he — "for  it's 
the  goold  that  does  be  always  troubling  us  in  the  ground.  An* 
tell  him  if  he  lives,"  says  he,  "to  give  you  my  daughter  in  mar- 
riage, an'  this  fort  along  with  her."  "Allilu!  me  tell  him!"  cries 
Dan  Dawley.  "I'm  sure  I  wouldn't  take  him  such  a  message  for 
the  world." 

"Do,  ayeh,"  says  the  ould  man,  "an'  show  him  this  ring  for  a 
token,  an'  tell  him  I'll  be  showing  myself  be  day  and  be  night  to 
him,  until  he'll  give  her  to  you."  So  he  vanished  in  the  greatest 
tundther  ever  you  hear.  That  was  well  an'  good.  Well,  the 
next  mornen'  Mr.  Chute  come,  an'  if  he  did,  "Good  morrow, 
good  boy,"  says  he.  "Good  morrow,  sir,"  says  Dan.  "Have 
you  any  news  for  me  after  the  night?"  says  he.  "I  have,  very 
good  news,"  says  Dan;  "I  have  three  crocks  o'  goold  for  you, 

45 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

I  got  from  the  ould  gentleman,"  says  he,  an'  he  up  an'  tould  him 
all  about  it,  and  showed  him  the  goold.  "It's  a  lie  you're  tellen' 
me,'  says  Mr.  Chute,  "  an'  I'll  have  your  life,"  says  he — "you  went 
rooten'  an'  found  these  yourself.'"  So  Dan  put  a  hand  in  his  pocket 
an'  pulled  out  the  ring  and  gave  it  into  his  hand.  It  was  the  ring, 
sir,  his  father  wore  the  day  he  was  buried.  "I  give  it  in  to  you," 
says  Mr.  Chute,  "you  did  see  them  surely.  What  else  did  he  say 
to  you?"  Well,  Dan  begin  looken'  down  an'  up,  an'  this  way 
an'  that  way,  an'  didn't  know  what  to  say.  "Tell  me  at  once," 
says  Mr.  Chute,  "an'  fear  nothing."  Very  well.  He  did.  "Sir," 
says  he,  "the  ould  gentleman  told  me,  an'  sure  'tis  a  thing  I  don't 
expect — but  he  said  I  should  get  Miss  Anna,  your  sister,  in  mar- 
riage." Well,  Mr.  Chute  stood  looken'  at  Dan  as  if  he  had  three 
heads  on  him.  "Give  you  my  sister,  you  keowt  of  a  geocoghl" 
says  he.  "  You  flog  Europe  for  bouldness.  Get  out  o' my  sighth," 
says  he,  "this  minute,  or  I'll  give  you  a  kick  that'll  raise  you  from 
poverty  to  the  highest  pitch  of  affluence."  "An'  won't  I  get  the 
crock  o'  goold,  sir?"  says  Dan.  "Away  out  o'  that  with  you," 
says  the  gentleman,  "'tis  to  rob  me  you  want,  I  believe,  you  no- 
torious delinquent."  Well,  Dan  was  forced  to  cut,  but  in  a  while 
after,  the  ould  man  sent  for  him,  and  made  him  a  compliment  o' 
something  handsome,  an'  put  him  over  his  business,  as  he  is  to- 
day with  the  present  people,  and  an  honest  creatur  as  could  be. 
There's  more  people  says  that  it  was  all  a  fable,  an'  that  Dan  Daw- 
ley  dremt  of  it,  but  this  was  his  own  story. — An'  sure  /  might  as 
well  be  draining,  too,'  he  added,  casting  a  side  glance  at  Kyrle, 
'for  it's  little  attention  you  are  paying  to  me  or  my  story.' 

In  this  assertion  Lowry  was  perfectly  correct,  for  his  young 
master's  thoughts  at  that  moment  were  occupied  by  a  far  more 
interesting  subject. 


CHAPTER  VI 

HOW  KYRLE  DALY  WAS  MORE  PUZZLED  BY  A  PIECE  OF  PAPER  THAN 
THE  ABOLISHERS  OF  THE  SMALL-NOTE  CURRENCY  THEMSELVES 


I 


N  taking  out  of  his  pocket  the  piece  of  silver  which  he  wanted 
to  bestow  on  the  cottage  Omphale,  he  drew  forth  with  it  a  little 

46 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

paper  containing  a  copy  of  verses  which  he  had  taken  from  one  of 
Anne  Chute's  music-books.     They  were  written  in  a  boyish  hand, 
and  signed  with  the  letters  H.  C.;  and  Kyrle  was  taxing  his  mem- 
ory to  recapitulate  all  the  bachelors  in  the  county  who  bore  those 
initials.     There  was  in  the  first  place  Hyland  Creagh,  commonly 
called  Fireball  Creagh,  a  great  'sweater  and  pinker — a  notorious 
duellist,  who  had  been  concerned  either  on  behalf  of  himself  or 
his  friends,  in  more  than  one  hundred  '  affairs  of  honour ' — a  mem- 
ber of  the  Hell-fire  Club,  a  society  constituted  on  principles  similar 
to  that  of  the  Mohocks,  which  flourished  in  London  about  half 
a  century  before  Kyrle's  time,  and  whose  rules  and  orders  the 
reader  may  peruse  at  full  length  in  the  manifesto  of  their  Em- 
peror Taw  Waw  Eben  Zan  Kaladar,  as  set  forth  in  Mr.  Addison's 
amusing  journal.     Of  the  provincial  branch  of  this  society  above 
mentioned  (it  is  a  name  that  we  are  loth  to  repeat  oftener  than  is 
necessary)  Mr.  Hyland  Fireball  Creagh  had  been  a  member  in 
his  early  days,  and  was  still  fond  of  recounting  their  customs  and 
adventures  with  greater  minuteness  than  always  accorded  with 
the  inclinations  of  his  hearers.     There  were  some  qualities  in  the 
composition  of  this  gentleman,  which  made  it  probable  enough 
that  he  might  write  verses  in  a  lady's  music-book.     He  was  as 
gallant  as  any  unmarried  Irishman  of  his  day,  and  he  had  a  fight- 
ing name,  a  reputation  which  was  at  that  time  in  much  higher 
request  than  it  is  in  our  own.     He  had  conversation  (an  essential 
talent  in  a  man  of  gallantry) — he  dressed  well,  though  with  a  cer- 
tain antiquated  air — and  he  had  a  little  poodle  dog,  which  shut 
the  door  when  you  said  '  Baithersh in! '  and  chucked  a  crust  of 
bread  from  his  nose  into  his  mouth,  at  the  word  'Fire!'     And  Mr. 
Creagh,  whenever  his  canine  follower  was  called  on  to  perform 
those  feats,  was  careful  to  make  the  ladies  observe,  that  Pincher 
never  ventured  to  snap  at  the  word  'Make  ready!'  or  'Present!' 
while  if  you  whispered  'Fire!'  in  ever  so  gentle  a  tone — pop!  the 
bread  vanished  in  an  instant.     But  then  there  were  some  objec- 
tions which  were  likely  to  neutralize  these  accomplishments  of  Fire- 
ball and  his  dog,  and  to  render  it  unlikely  after  all  that  he  (that 
is,  the  former)  had  been  the  perpetrator  of  the  verses.     He  had 
run  through  his  property  and  reduced  himself  to  the  mean  estate 
of  a  needy  guest  at  other  men's  tables,  and  a  drinker  of  other 
men's  wine — or  rather  whiskey,  for  that  was  the  fundamental 
ingredient  of  his  customary  beverage.    This  circumstance  laid 

47 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

him  under  the  necessity  of  overlooking  a  greater  number  of  un- 
handsome speeches  than  was  consistent  with  his  early  fame.  And 
there  was  one  other  objection  which  rendered  it  still  more  improb- 
able that  Anne  Chute  would  think  any  of  his  effusions  worth  pre- 
serving. He  was  just  turned  of  sixty-five. 

It  could  not,  therefore,  be  Mr.  Hyland  Fireball  Creagh.     C.  H.  ? 
Who  was  it? — Hepton  Connolly? 

Now,  reader,  judge  for  yourself  what  a  wise  conjecture  was  this 
of  Mr.  Kyrle  Daly's.  Mr.  Hepton  Connolly  was  a  still  more  ob- 
jectionable swain  than  the  Irish  diner-out  above  described; 
indeed,  he  had  no  single  qualification  to  recommend  him  as  a 
social  companion,  except  that  of  being  able  to  contain  a  prodig- 
ious quantity  of  whiskey-punch  at  a  sitting,  a  virtue  in  which  a 
six-gallon  jar  might  have  excelled  him.  Nor  do  I  find  that  there 
was  any  part  of  Anne  Chute's  demeanour  which  could  lead  Kyrle 
Daly  to  suppose  that  this  circumstance  would  take  a  powerful 
hold  of  her  affections,  although  it  secured  him  an  envied  place 
in  those  of  her  uncle,  Mr.  Barnaby  Cregan  of  Roaring  Hall.  For 
the  rest,  Mr.  Hepton  Connolly  was  one  individual  of  a  species 
which  is  now  happily  extinct  among  Irish  gentlemen.  He  just 
retained  enough  of  a  once  flourishing  patrimony  to  enable  him 
to  keep  a  hunter,  a  racer,  and  an  insolent  groom.  He  was  the 
terror  of  all  the  pettifogging  lawyers,  the  three-and-ninepenny 
attorneys,  bailiffs,  and  process-servers  in  the  county.  Against 
these  last  in  particular,  he  had  carried  his  indignation  to  such  a 
length,  as  to  maim  one  of  them  for  life  by  a  shot  from  his  hall-win- 
dow. And  he  told  fifty  anecdotes  which  made  it  appear  astonish- 
ing that  he  had  escaped  the  gallows  so  long.  But  he  relied  strongly 
(and  in  those  days  not  without  reason)  on  the  fact,  that  there  could 
not  be  a  jury  empannelled  against  him  on  which  he  might  not 
number  a  majority  of  his  own  relations.  It  was  not,  indeed,  that 
he  calculated  much  on  their  personal  regard  of  affection  for  himself, 
but  the  stain  upon  their  own  name  was  such,  he  knew,  as  they 
would  not  willingly  incur.  His  reliance  upon  this  nicety  of  honour 
in  his  friends  was  so  complete,  that  he  never  suffered  any  uneasi- 
ness upon  those  occasions  when  it  became  necessary  for  him  to 
plead  to  an  indictment,  however  irresistible  the  evidence  by  which 
it  was  supported;  and  the  only  symptoms  of  anxiety  which  he  ever 
manifested  consisted  in  a  frequent  reference  to  his  match  and 
a  whisper  to  the  under-turnkey,  to  know  whether  he  had  left 

48 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

directions  at  the  gaol  to  keep  his  dinner  hot.  One  amusing 
effect  produced  by  Mr.  Connolly's  repeated  collision  with  judicial 
authorities  was,  that  he  acquired  a  gradual  fondness  for  the  law 
itself,  and  became  knowing  upon  the  rights  of  persons  and  the 
rights  of  things,  in  proportion  to  the  practical  liberties  which  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  taking  with  the  one  and  the  other.  While 
he  made  little  account  of  breaking  a  man's  head  at  a  second  word, 
he  would  prosecute  to  the  rigor  of  the  law  a  poor  half-naked  moun- 
taineer for  stealing  a  basket  of  turf  from  his  ricks,  or  cutting  a 
fagot  in  one  of  his  hedges.  To  do  him  justice,  however,  it  should 
be  mentioned  that  he  never  was  known  to  pursue  matters  to  ex- 
tremity in  the  instance  of  punishment,  and  was  always  satisfied 
with  displaying  his  own  legal  skill  before  the  petty  sessions.  Nay, 
he  had  even  been  frequently  known  to  add  considerably  to  his 
own  loss  in  those  cases  by  making  a  gift  to  the  culprit  of  many 
times  the  amount  of  the  pilfered  property.  If  Anne  Chute  could 
receive  this  single  trait  of  good  feeling  as  a  counterpoise  for  much 
bad  principle;  if  she  could  love  to  see  her  house  filled  with  jockeys, 
horse-riders,  grooms,  and  drunken  gentlemen;  if  she  could  cherish 
a  fondness  for  dogs  and  unlicensed  whiskey;  if,  in  a  word,  she  could 
be  the  happy  wife  of  a  mere  sportsman,  then  it  was  possible  that 
Mr.  Hepton  Connolly  might  be  the  transcriber  (author  was  out 
of  the  question)  of  the  little  effusion  that  had  excited  Kyrle  Daly's 
curiosity. 

Who  was  it?  The  question  still  remained  without  a  solution. 
Ha! — Her  cousin  and  his  college  friend,  Mr.  Hardress  Cregan? 
The  conjecture  at  first  made  the  blood  fly  into  his  face,  while  his 
nerves  were  thrilled  by  a  horrid  sensation  of  mingled  fear,  grief, 
and  anger.  But  a  moment's  reflection  was  sufficient  to  restore 
quiet  to  his  mind,  and  to  smite  down  the  spirit  of  jealousy  at  its 
first  motion  within  his  breast.  Hardress  Cregan  was  perfectly 
indifferent  to  the  lady,  he  seldom  spoke  of  her,  and  scarcely  ever 
visited  at  Castle  Chute.  It  could  not  be  Hardress.  He  was  a 
great  deal  too  shy  and  timid  to  carry  on  a  lengthened  interchange 
of  raillery  with  any  young  lady,  and  if  it  were  more  than  raillery, 
he  knew  the  intensity  of  his  friend's  character  too  well  to  suppose 
that  he  would  refrain  from  pursuing  his  fortunes.  It  could  not  be 
Hardress.  He  was  perfectly  aware  of  Kyrle  Daly's  secret;  he 
had  repeatedly  expressed  the  warmest  wishes  for  his  success,  and 
Hardress  Cregan  was  no  hypocrite.  They  had  been  friends,  at- 

49 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

tached  friends,  at  college,  and  although  their  intercourse  had  been 
much  interrupted  since  their  return  home,  by  difference  of  pur- 
suits and  of  tastes  or  habits,  still  their  early  friendship  remained 
unchanged,  and  they  never  met  but  with  the  warmth  and  the  af- 
fection of  brothers.  It  was  true  he  had  heard  Hardress  speak  of 
her  with  much  esteem,  on  his  first  introduction  to  college,  and 
when  he  was  yet  a  very  young  lad;  but  a  little  raillery  was  abun- 
dantly sufficient  to  strike  him  dumb  forever  on  the  subject,  and 
he  had  not  taken  many  lounges  among  the  beauties  of  Capel- 
street,  and  the  Phoenix-park,  when  he  appeared  to  have  lost  all 
recollection  of  his  boyish  attachment.  Kyrle  Daly  had  penetra- 
tion enough  to  be  aware  that  he  could  not  with  certainty  calculate 
on  a  character  at  once  so  profound  and  so  unsettled  as  that  of  his 
young  friend,  who  had  always,  even  in  his  mere  boyhood,  been 
unapproachable  by  his  most  intimate  acquaintances,  and  whom 
he  suspected  to  be  capable  of  one  day  wielding  a  mightier  influence 
in  society  than  he  seemed  himself  to  hope  or  ambition.  But  Har- 
dress was  no  hypocrite.  That  was  a  sufficient  security,  that  if 
there  were  a  rival  in  the  case,  he  was  not  the  man,  and  if  Kyrle 
needed  a  more  positive  argument,  it  might  be  found  in  the  fact 
of  a  new  attachment,  which  had  of  late  been  intimated  to  him  by 
his  young  friend  himself. 

The  love  which  Kyrle  entertained  for  this  lady  was  so  sincere, 
so  rational,  and  regulated  by  so  fine  a  principle  of  judgment,  that 
the  warmest,  the  wisest,  and  the  best  of  men  might  condescend  to 
take  an  interest  in  its  success.  Naturally  gifted  with  the  gentlest 
qualities  of  heart,  and  educated  by  a  mother  who  taught  him  the 
use  of  that  mind  by  which  they  were  to  be  directed,  it  would  not 
be  easy  to  discover  a  more  estimable  character  among  the  circles 
in  which  he  moved.  He  was  the  more  fortunate,  too,  that  his 
goodness  was  the  result  of  natural  feeling  rather  than  of  principle 
alone;  for  it  is  a  strange  and  a  pitiable  peculiarity  in  our  nature 
that  if  a  man  by  mere  strength  of  reason  and  perseverance  has 
made  himself  master  of  all  the  social  virtues,  he  shall  not  be  as 
much  loved  in  the  world  as  another  who  has  inherited  them  from 
nature,  although  in  the  latter  instance  they  may  be  obscured  by 
many  hideous  vices.  It  may  appear  presumptuous  to  hazard  an 
opinion  upon  a  subject  of  so  much  gravity,  but  perhaps  the  reader 
will  not  charge  us  with  having  caught  the  paradoxical  air  of  the 
day,  if  we  venture  to  intimate  that  the  true  source  of  the  preference 

5° 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

may  be  referred  to  the  common  principle  of  self-preservation. 
A  character  that  is  naturally,  and  by  necessity,  generous,  may  be 
calculated  upon  with  more  certainty,  than  that  which  is  formed 
by  education  only,  as  long  as  men's  opinions  shall  be  found  more 
variable  than  their  feelings.  Otherwise  why  should  we  bestow 
more  affection  on  that  character  which  is  really  the  less  admirable 
of  the  two?  But  the  reader  may  receive  or  reject  this  conjecture 
as  he  pleases;  we  proceed  with  our  history. 

For  this,  or  for  some  better  reason,  it  was  that  Kyrle  Daly, 
though  highly  popular  among  his  inferiors  and  dependents,  had 
only  a  second  place  in  their  affection,  compared  with  his  friend 
Hardress.  A  generosity  utterly  reckless  and  unreasoning  is  a  qual- 
ity that  in  all  seasons  has  wrought  most  powerfully  upon  the  inclina- 
tions of  the  Irish  peasantry,  who  are  themselves  more  distinguished 
for  quick  and  kindly  feeling  than  for  a  just  perception  of  moral 
excellence.  Because,  therefore,  the  flow  of  generosity  in  Hardress 
Cregan  was  never  checked  or  governed  by  motives  of  prudence  or 
of  justice,  while  good  sense  and  reason  regulated  that  of  Kyrle  Daly, 
the  estimation  in  which  they  were  held  was  proportionably  unequal. 
The  latter  was  spoken  of  amongst  the  people  as '  a  good  master ' ;  but 
Hardress  was  their  darling.  His  unbounded  profusion  made  them 
entertain  for  him  that  natural  tenderness  which  we  are  apt  to  feel 
towards  any  object  that  seems  to  require  protection.  '  His  heart,' 
they  observed,  'was  in  the  right  place.'  '  It  would  be  well  for  him 
if  he  had  some  of  Master  Kyrle's  sense,  poor  fellow.'  '  Master 
Kyrle  would  buy  and  sell  him  at  any  fair  in  Munster.' 

It  was  only,  therefore,  amongst  those  who  were  thoroughly  inti- 
mate with  his  character  that  Kyrle  Daly  was  fully  understood  and 
appreciated;  and  it  is  not  saying  a  little  in  his  praise,  to  remark  that 
his  warmest  admirers,  as  well  as  his  best  lovers,  were  to  be  found 
within  the  circle  of  his  own  family. 

It  is  impossible  that  such  a  mind  as  we  have  described  could 
give  a  tranquil  entertainment  to  any  serious  passion.  Few  could 
suppose,  from  the  general  gaiety  and  cheerfulness  of  his  demeanour, 
and  the  governed  and  rational  turn  of  his  discourse,  that  he  held  a 
heart  so  acutely  susceptible  of  passion,  and  so  obnoxious  to  dis- 
appointment. It  is  true  that,  in  the  present  instance,  he  was  in  some 
degree  guarded  by  his  own  doubts  and  fears  against  the  latter  con- 
tingency, but  he  had  also  cherished  hope  sufficient  to  insure  him,  in 
case  of  rejection,  a  grievous  load  of  misery,  He  had  weighed  well 

Si 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

the  lady's  worth  before  he  fixed  his  affections  upon  her,  and  when 
he  did*  so,  every  faculty  of  his  mind,  and  feeling  of  his  heart,  sub- 
scribed to  the  conviction,  that  with  her,  and  her  alone,  he  could  be 
earthly  happy. 

The  sun  had  passed  the  meridian  before  Kyrle  Daly  again  beheld 
the  small  and  wooded  peninsula  which  formed  the  site  of  Castle 
Chute.  The  langour  of  heart  that  always  accompanies  the  passion 
in  its  hours  of  comparative  inaction,  that  luxurious  feeling  of  mingled 
pensiveness  and  joy,  which  fills  up  the  breast,  and  constitutes  in 
itself  an  elysium  even  to  the  doubting  lover,  were  aided  in  their 
influence  by  the  sunny  calmness  of  the  day,  and  the  beauty  of  the 
landscape  which  every  step  unfolded  to  his  view.  The  fever  of 
suspense  became  more  tormenting  in  proportion  as  he  drew  nearer 
to  the  solution  of  his  doubts,  and  the  last  few  miles  of  his  journey 
seemed  incomparably  the  most  tedious.  His  horse,  however,  who 
was  not  in  love,  and  had  not  broken  fast  since  morning,  began,  at 
sight  of  a  familiar  baiting-place,  to  show  symptoms  of  inanition, 
to  remedy  which  his  considerate  master  drew  up,  and  alighted  at 
the  inn  door. 


CHAPTER  VH 

HOW  KYRLE  DALY  DISCOVERS  THAT  ALL  THE  SORROW  UNDER  THE 
SUN   DOES   NOT   REST   UPON  HIS   SHOULDERS   ALONE 

HE  left  Lowry  Looby  standing  by  the  trough  to  see  justice  done 
to  the  dumb  creature,  while  he  strolled  onwards  in  the  sun- 
shine, unwilling  to  disturb  the  current  of  his  own  thoughts  by  any 
conversation  with  the  people  of  the  inn. 

The  owner  of  this  place  of  'Entertainment'  also  filled  the  dignified 
post  of  pound-keeper  to  the  neighbouring  village,  and  his  roofless 
Bastile  was  situated  at  no  great  distance  farther  on  the  roadside.  As 
Kyrle  walked  by  the  iron  gate  he  was  surprised  to  see  it  crowded  by 
a  number  of  Kerry  ponies  such  as  may  be  discerned  along  the  moun- 
tain sides  from  the  upper  lake  of  Killarney.  They  were  of  various 
colours — bright  bay,  dun,  and  cream;  but  the  shagginess  of  their 
coats,  and  the  diminutiveness  of  their  size,  rendered  them  but  a  little 
more  respectable  in  appearance  than  the  same  number  of  donkeys. 

52 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

Several  of  these  half-starved  creatures  had  their  heads  thrust  out 
over  the  low  pound  wall,  as  if  to  solicit  the  interference  of  passengers, 
while  others,  resigned  to  their  fate,  stood  hi  drooping  postures  in  the 
centre  of  the  enclosure,  quite  chop-fallen.  Kyrle  Daly's  curiosity 
was  sufficiently  excited  to  induce  him  to  turn  once  more  upon  his 
path,  and  make  some  inquiry  at  the  inn  concerning  the  owner  of  the 
herd. 

He  found  the  landlord  at  the  door,  a  small,  withered  old  man, 
with  an  air  of  mingled  moroseness  and  good  nature  in  his  counte- 
nance; the  former  the  effect  of  his  office,  the  latter  of  his  natural 
disposition.  He  was  standing  on  a  three-foot  stool,  and  occupied  in 
taking  down  a  sign-board,  for  the  purpose  of  transmitting  it  to  a 
scene  of  rural  festivity  which  was  going  forward  in  the  neighbour- 
hood. 

He  suspended  his  labours,  and  was  about  to  enter  into  an  ample 
exposition  of  the  history  of  the  ponies,  when  his  wife,  a  blooming, 
middle-aged  woman,  in  a  tete  and  glossy  green  petticoat,  came  to  the 
door,  and  looked  out  to  know  what  made  the  hammering  cease. 
The  glance  of  her  eye  was  enough  for  the  innkeeper,  who  recom- 
menced his  work  with  fresh  diligence,  while  his  watchful  helpmate 
undertook  to  satisfy  the  curiosity  of  our  traveller. 

The  ponies,  she  told  him,  were  the  property  of  a  mountaineer, 
from  Killarney,  who  was  making  a  '  tower '  of  the  country,  to  try 
and  sell  them  at  the  fairs  and  patterns.  He  had  come  to  their  neigh- 
bourhood last  night,  and  turned  his  ponies  out  on  the  commons; 
but  finding  that  it  furnished  only  short  commons  for  them,  the  poor 
things  had  made  their  way  into  the  improvements  of  Castle  Chute, 
and  were  apprehended  by  Mr.  Dan  Dawley  in  the  act  of  trespass. 
That  inexorable  functionary  had  issued  an  order  for  their  immediate 
committal  to  pound;  and  Myles  Murphy,  the  owner,  was  now  gone 
off  to  make  interest  with  Miss  Anne, '  the  young  mistress,'  for  their 
release. 

'  He'll  be  a  lucky  boy,'  she  continued,  '  if  he  overtakes  her  a 
home  this  way — for  herself  an'  a  deal  o'  quality  are  to  be  at  the  sands 
below  to  see  the  races  and  doings  there.' 

'  Races  ?  '  repeated  Kyrle.  '  I  never  heard  of  races  in  this 
quarter.' 

'Oyeh,  what  races?'  exclaimed  her  husband.  'A  parcel  of  ould 
slaggeens,  sir,  that's  running  for  a  saddle,  that's  all  the  races  they'll 
have.' 

53 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

'  So  itself,  what  hurt? '  retorted  the  wife.  '  The  whole  European 
world  will  be  there  to  look  at  'em;  an'  I'll  be  bound  they'll  drink  as 
hearty  as  if  Jerry  Sneak  an'  Sappho  were  on  the  coorse.  An'  'tis 
there  you  ought  to  be  an  hour  ago  in  your  tent,  instead  of  crusheening 
here  about  Myles  Murphy  an'  his  ponies.' 

'  Myles  Murphy!  Myles-na-coppuleen! — Miles  of  the  ponies, 
is  it  ?'  said  Lowry  Looby,  who  just  then  led  Kyrle  Daly's  horse  to  the 
door.  '  Is  he  in  these  parts  now  ? ' 

'  Do  you  know  Myles,  eroo? '  was  the  truly  Irish  reply. 
'  Know  Myles-na-coppuleen?    Wisha,  an'  'tis  I  that  do,  an'  that 
well!     O  murther,  an'  are  them  poor  Myles's  ponies  I  see  in  the 
pound  over?    Poor  boy!  I  declare  it  I'm  sorry  for  his  trouble.' 

'If  you  be  as  you  say,'  the  old  innkeeper  muttered  with  a 
distrustful  smile,  '  put  a  hand  in  your  pocket  an'  give  me 
four  and  eight-pence,  an'  you  may  take  the  fourteen  of  'em  after 
your  him.' 

'Why  then,  see!  I'm  blest,  if  I  had  it,  but  I  wouldn't  break 
word,  this  day.  Or  more  than  that,  if  it  was  in  my  power,  for  poor 
Myles.  There  isn't  a  better  son  nor  brother  this  moment,  going  the 
road,  than  what  he  is.' 

'  It's  true  for  you  by  all  accounts,'  said  the  pound-keeper,  as  he 
counted  over  Kyrle  Daly's  change, '  but  people  must  do  their  duty 
for  all.' 

'Surely,  surely,'  said  Lowry,  turning  off. 

Mrs.  Normile,  the  hostess,  here  made  her  reappearance  at  the 
door,  with  a  foaming  pot  of  Fermoy  ale  in  her  hand,  to  which  she 
directed  Lowry's  attention. 

'A'  then,  what's  that  you're  doing  ? '  he  said  with  a  look  of  rough 
remonstrance,  while  he  fixed  nevertheless  a  steady  and  wistful  eye 
upon  the  draught. 

'  Drink  it  off,  I  tell  you.' 
'  Sorrow  a  drop.' 
'  You  must,  again.' 
'I  won't,  I  tell  you!' 

'Do  you  refuse  my  hansel,*  an'  I  going  to  the  races?  Be  said  by 
me,  I  tell  you.  The  day  is  drouthy.' 

Lowry  offered  no  further  objection,  but  made  his  own  of  the  ale, 
observing  as  he  returned  the  vessel,  with  closed  and  watery  eyes,  that 
it  was  '  murtheren  '  strong.'  The  colloquy  above  detailed  was  car- 

*  It  is  considered  not  lucky  to  refuse  a  hansel. 
54 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

ried  on  with  so  much  roughness  of  accent,  and  violence  of  gesture, 
that  a  person  at  a  little  distance  might  have  supposed  the  parties 
were  on  the  eve  of  coming  to  blows  in  an  actual  quarrel.  But  it  was 
all  politeness. 

Kyrle  Daly  obtained  from  his  attendant  as  they  proceeded  on  their 
way,  an  account  of  the  individual  in  whom  he  had  expressed  so  deep 
an  interest.  Myles  Murphy,  or,  as  he  was  more  generally  called, 
Myles  of  the  Ponies,  was  the  occupier  of  a  tract  of  land  on  one  of  the 
Killarney  mountains  comprising  about  seven  hundred  acres.  For 
this  extensive  holding,  he  paid  a  rent  of  fifteen  pounds  sterling  in  the 
year,  and  if  there  were  a  market  for  grey  limestone  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, Myles  would  be  one  of  the  wealthiest  men  in  Kerry.  But,  as 
the  architectural  taste  of  the  vicinity  ran  chiefly  in  favour  of  mud, 
his  property  in  mineral  was  left,  as  an  heirloom,  upon  his  hands. 
Of  the  whole  seven  hundred  acres,  there  was  no  more  under  tillage 
than  sufficed  to  furnish  potatoes  for  the  consumption  of  his  own 
family.  The  vast  remainder  was  stocked  with  numerous  herds  of 
wild  ponies,  who  found  scanty  pasturage  between  the  fissures  of 
the  crags,  and  yet  were  multiplied  to  such  a  degree,  that  Myles 
could  not  estimate  the  amount  of  his  own  stud. 

'  His  own  goodness,  it  was,'  continued  Lowry, '  that  got  that  for 
him.  He  was  left,  poor  fellow,  after  his  father  dying  of  the  sickness* 
with  a  houseful  o'  childer;  fourteen  sons  and  two  daughters,  besides 
himself,  to  provide  for,  an'  his  ould  mother.  He  supported  'em  all 

be  the  labour  of  his  two  hands  till  Lord  K hear  talks  of  him  of 

a  day,  an'  gave  him  a  lease  o'  that  farm,  an'  behaved  a  good  landlord 
to  him  since.  Still  an'  all,  Myles  do  be  poor,  for  he  never  knew  how 
to  keep  a  hoult  o'  the  money.  He  provided  for  all  his  brothers; 
had  one  priested,  and  another  bound  to  a  brogue  maker,  and  another 
settled  as  a  schoolmaster  in  the  place,  and  more  listed  from  him,  an' 
two  went  to  say,  an'  I  don't  know  what  he  done  with  the  rest,  but 
they're  all  very  well  off,  and  left  poor  Myles  with  an  empty  pocket 
in  the  latter  end.' 

Lowry  went  on  to  inform  our  traveller  that  this  said  Myles  was  a 
giant  in  stature,  measuring  six  feet  four  inches '  in  his  vamps ' — that 
he  never  yet  met  'that  man  that  could  give  him  a  stroke,  and  he 
having  a  stick  in  his  hand ' — that  he  was  a  clean-made  boy  as  ever 
walked  the  ground,'  and  such  a  master  of  his  weapon  that  himself 
and  Luke  Kennedy,  the  Killarney  boatman,  used  to  be  two  hours 
*  Typhus  fever. 

55 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'oppozzit'  one  another,  without  a  single  blow  being  received 
on  either  side.  On  one  occasion,  indeed,  he  was  fortunate 
enough  to  '  get  a  vacancy  at  Kennedy,'  of  which  he  made  so 
forcible  a  use,  the  stick  which  was  in  the  hand  of  the  latter 
flew  over  Ross  Castle  into  the  lower  lake,  merely  from  a  success- 
ful tip  in  the  elbow. 

'  But,'  Lowry  added,  '  there's  a  change  come  in  poor  Myles  of 
late.  It  was  his  loock  to  meet  Eily  O'Connor,  the  ropemaker's 
daughter,  of  a  day,  an't  he  selling  his  ponies,  an'  'tis  a  new  story 
with  him  since.  He's  mad,  sir,  mad  in  love.  He  isn't  good  for 
anything.  He  says  she  gave  him  powders  one  day  in  an  apple  at 
Owen's  garden  where  they  had  a  benefit,  but  I  wouldn't  give  in  to 
such  a  story  as  that  at  all;  for  Eily  is  as  delicate  and  tender  in  herself 
as  a  lady.' 

They  were  interrupted  at  this  juncture  by  a  startling  incident. 
A  mounted  countryman  galloped  up  to  them,  dressed  in  a  complete 
suit  of  frieze  made  from  the  undyed  wool  of  black  sheep,  such  as 
formed  the  texture  of  the  phalang  in  the  days  of  Gerald  Barry. 
His  face  was  pale  and  moist,  and  grimed  with  dust.  A  smooth 
yellow  wig  was  pushed  awry  upon  his  temples,  disclosing  a  mass  of 
grey  hair  that  was  damp  and  matted  with  the  effects  of  violent 
exercise.  He  looked  alternately  at  both  travellers  with  an  expres- 
sion of  mingled  wildness  and  grief  in  his  countenance;  and  again 
clapping  spurs  to  his  horse,  rode  off  and  disappeared  at  a  short  turn 
in  the  road. 

'I'm  blest  but  that  flogs  Europe!'  exclaimed  Lowry  Looby,  in  a 
tone  of  utter  surprise  and  concern.  '  There's  something  great 
happened,  surely.' 

'  Who  is  he,  Lowry  ?    I  think  I  ought  to  know  his  face.' 

'  Mihil  O'Connor,  sir;  father  to  the  girl  we  were  just  talking  of. 
He  looks  to  be  in  trouble.  Easy!  Here's  little  Foxy  Dunat,  the 
hair-cutter,  trotten'  after  him,  an'  he'll  tell  us.' 

The  person  whom  he  named,  a  small  red-haired  man,  rode  up  at 
the  same  moment,  appearing  to  keep  his  seat  on  horseback  with 
much  difficulty.  The  animal  he  rode,  though  lean  and  bony,  was 
of  great  size,  and  presented  a  circumference  much  too  extensive  to  be 
embraced  by  the  short  legs  of  the  hair-cutter.  His  feet,  for  the 
greater  security,  were  stuck  fast  between  the  stirrup-leather,  while 
the  empty  irons  remained  dangling  underneath.  For  the  purpose 
of  making  assurance  doubly  sure,  he  had  grasped  fast  with  one  hand 

56 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

the  lofty  pummel  of  the  saddle,  while  the  other  was  entwined  in  the 
long  and  undressed  mane. 

'  Pru-h!  Pruh!  Stop  her,  Lowry,  eroo!  Stop  her,  an' heavens 
bless  you.  I'm  fairly  flay'd  alive  from  her,  that's  what  I  am — 
joulten',  joulten'  for  the  bare  life.  Your  sarvant,  Mr.  Daly, — I'm 
not  worth  looken'  at.  See  my  wig.'  He  pulled  one  out  of  his 
pocket  and  held  it  up  to  view.  '  I  was  obleeged  to  take  it  off  an' 
put  it  in  my  pocket,  it  was  so  tossed  from  the  shaking  I  got.  I  never 
was  a-horseback  before  but  once  at  Molly  Mac's  funeral,  an'  I 
never'll  be  a-horseback  again  till  I'm  going  to  my  own.  O  murther! 
murther!  I  have  a  pain  in  the  small  o'  my  back  that  would  kill  the 
Danes.  Well,  Mr.  Daly,  I  hope  the  master  liked  his  new  wig  ? — I 
kep'  it  a  long  time  from  him,  surely.  I  never'll  be  the  betther  o'  this 
day's  riden'.  Did  you  see  Mihil-na-thiadarucha  *  go  by  this  way  ? 
I'm  kilt  and  shoiled,  that's  what  I  am.' 

'  I  did  see  him,'  said  Lowry;   '  what's  the  matter  with  him  ? ' 

'  Eily,  his  daughter  is  gone  from  him,  or  spirited  away.' 

'  Erra,  you  don't  tell  me  so  ? ' 

'  She  is,  I  tell  you,  an'  he's  like  a  wild  man  about  it.  Here  he's 
back  himself.' 

O'Connor  again  appeared  at  the  turn  of  the  road  and  galloped 
roughly  back  upon  the  group.  He  looked  ferociously  at  Lowry. 
and  pointing  his  stick  into  his  face,  while  his  frame  trembled  with 
rage,  he  roared  out, '  Tell  me,  did  you  see  her,  this  minute,  or  I'll 
thrust  my  stick  down  your  throat!  Tell  me,  do  you  know  anything 
of  her,  I  advise  you.' 

'  I  don't! '  said  Lowry,  with  equal  fierceness.  Then  as  if  ashamed 
of  resenting  a  speech  uttered  by  the  poor  old  man,  under  so  terrible 
an  occasion  of  excitement,  he  changed  his  tone,  and  repeated,  more 
gently,  '  I  don't,  Mihil,  an'  I  don't  know  what  cause  I  ever  gave 
you  to  speak  to  me  in  that  strain.' 

The  old  ropemaker  dropped  the  bridle,  his  clasped  hands  fell  on 
the  pummel  of  the  saddle,  and  drooped  his  head,  while  he  seemed 
to  gasp  for  utterance.  '  Lowry,'  he  said,  '  heavens  guide  you,  an' 
me,  do  you  know — or  could  you  put  me  in  a  way  of  hearing  any- 
thing of  her  ? ' 

*  Michael  of  the  Ropes.  This  practice  of  naming  individuals  from 
their  professions  (in  which  the  great  proportion  of  surnames  are  said 
to  have  originated)  is  quite  general  among  the  Irish  peasantry.  So 
far  is  the  humour  sometimes  carried,  that  a  poor  widow  in  our  own 
village  has  been  nicknamed  Vauria  n'  thau  Llanuv,  i.e.,  Mary  of  the 
two  children. 

57 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'Ofwho,ayeh?' 

'Eily;my  daughter!  Oh,  Lowry,  a'ra  gal,  my  daughter!  My 
poor  girl ! ' 

'What  of  her,  MM?' 

'  What  of  her? — Gone!  lost!  Gone  from  her  ould  father,  an'  no 
account  of  her — ' 

'  Erra,  no  ? ' 

'  Yes,  I  tell  you!'  He  threw  a  ghastly  look  around.  'She  is 
stolen,  or  she  strayed.  If  she  is  stolen,  may  the  Almighty  forgive 
them  that  took  her  from  me,  an'  if  she  strayed  of  her  own  liking, 
may  my  curse — ' 

'  Howl!  howl!  *  I  tell  you,  man,'  cried  Lowry,  in  a  loud  voice, 
'don't  curse  your  daughter  without  knowing  what  you  do.  Don't  I 
know  her,  do  you  think?  And  don't  I  know  that  she  wouldn't  be 
the  girl  you  say  for  her  apronf ul  of  goold  ?  ' 

'  You're  a  good  boy,  Lowry;  you're  a  good  boy,'  said  the  old 
man,  wringing  his  hand, '  but  she's  gone.  I  had  none  but  her,  an' 
they  took  her  from  me.  Her  mother  is  dead  these  three  years,  an' 
all  her  brothers  and  sisters  died  young,  an'  I  reared  her  like  a  lady, 
an'  this  is  the  way  she  left  me  now.  But  what  hurt?  Let  her  go.' 

'  The  M'Mahons  were  at  the  fair  of  Garryowen  yesterday,'  said 
Lowry,  musing.  '  I  wonder  could  it  be  them  at  all.  I  tell  you, 
there  are  bad  boys  among  them.  There  was  one  of  'em  hanged  for 
spiriting  away  a  girl  o'  the  Hayes's  before.' 

'  If  I  thought  it  was  one  o'  them,'  O'Connor  exclaimed,  stretching 
his  arm  to  its  full  length,  and  shaking  his  clenched  hand  with  great 
passion, '  and  if  I  knew  the  one  that  robbed  me,  I'd  find  him  out,  if  he 
was  as  cunning  as  a  rabbit,  an'  I'd  tear  him  between  my  two  hands 
if  he  was  as  strong  as  a  horse.  They  think  to  play  their  game  on  me 
because  my  hair  is  grey.  But  I  can  match  the  villains  yet.  If  steel, 
or  fire,  or  pikes,  or  powder  can  match  'em,  I'll  do  it.  Let  go  my 
horse's  bridle,  an'  don't  be  holding  me  here  when  I  should  be  flying 
like  the  wind  behind  'em.' 

Here  he  caught  the  eye  of  Kyrle  Daly,  as  the  latter  asked  him 
whether  he '  had  not  laid  informations  before  a  magistrate.' 

Instead  of  answering,  the  old  man,  who  now  recognized  Daly  for 

the  first  time,  took  off  his  hat  and  with  a  smile  in  which  grief  and 

anger  were  mingled  with  native  courtesy,  said, '  Mr.  Daly,  astorej 

I  ask  your  pardon  for  not  knowing  you;   I  meant  no  offence  to  you, 

*  Hold.  t  My  dear. 

58 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

or  to  your  father's  son.  I  couldn't  do  it.  Ho  ware  you,  sir?  How 
is  the  masther  an'  the  misthress  ?  The  Lord  direct  'em,  an'  spare 
'em  their  children! ' — Here  the  old  man's  eyes  grew  watery,  and  the 
words  were  broken  in  his  throat.  '  Lay  informations  ? '  he  continued, 
taking  up  Kyrle  Daly's  question.  '  No — no,  sir.  My  back  *  isn't 
so  poor  in  the  country  that  I  need  to  do  so  mean  a  thing  as  that.' 

'And  what  other  course  would  you  take  to  obtain  justice?' 

'I'll  tell  you  the  justice  I'd  want,'  said  O'Connor,  gripping  his 
stick  hard,  and  knitting  his  brows  together,  while  the  very  beard 
bristled  upon  his  chin  for  anger.  'To  plant  him  over-right  me  in 
the  heart  o'  Garryowen  fair,  or  where  else  he'd  like,  an'  give  him 
a  stick,  and  let  me  pick  justice  out  of  his  four  bones!'  Here  he 
indulged  himself  with  one  rapid  flourish  of  the  blackthorn  stick 
above  his  head,  which  considerably  endangered  that  of  the  young 
gentleman  to  whom  he  addressed  himself. 

At  the  same  moment  a  neighbour  of  O'Connor's  galloped  up  to 
them  and  exclaimed — 'Well,  Mihil,  agra,  any  tidings  of  her  yet?' 

'Sorrow  tale  or  tiding.' 

'An'  is  it  here  you're  stoppen'  talken'  an'  them  villains  spiriting 
your  daughter  away  through  the  country?  Wisha,  but  you're  a 
droll  man,  this  day.' 

Not  Hamlet,  in  that  exquisitely  natural  burst  of  passion  over  the 
tomb  of  'the  fair  Ophelia' — where  he  becomes  incensed  against 
the  affectionate  Laertes  for  'the  bravery  of  his  grief,'  and  treats  it 
as  an  infringement  on  his  own  prerogative  of  sorrow — not  Hamlet, 
the  Dane,  in  that  moment  of  '  towering  passion,'  could  throw  more 
loftiness  of  rebuke  into  his  glance,  than  did  Mihil  O'Connor,  as  he 
gazed  upon  the  daring  clansman  who  had  thus  presumed  to  call 
his  fatherly  affections  to  account.  More  temperate,  however,  than 
the  Danish  Prince,  he  did  not  let  his  anger  loose,  but  compressed 
his  teeth,  and  puffed  it  forth  between  them.  Touching  his  hat  to 
Kyrle,  and  bidding  Lowry  'stand  his  friend,'  he  put  spurs  to  his 
horse,  and  rode  forwards,  followed  by  his  friend,  while  Lowry  laid 
his  hand  on  the  hair-cutter's  arm,  and  asked  him  for  an  account  of 
the  particulars. 

'  Sonuher  f  to  me  if  I  know  the  half  of  it,'  said  the  foe  of  un- 
shaven chins,  speaking  in  a  shrill,  professional  accent;  'but  I  was 
standing  in  my  little  place,  above,  shaving  a  boy  o'  the  Downes's 
against  the  benefit  at  Batt  Coonerty's,  an'  being  delayed  a  good 
*  Faction.  t  A  good  wife. 

59 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

while  (for  the  Downes's  have  all  very  strong  hair, — I'd  as  lieve  be 
shaving"  a  horse  as  one  of  'em),  I  was  sthrappen'  my  razhor  (for 
the  twentieth  turn),  an'  looken'  out  into  the  fair,  when  who  should 
I  see  going  by  only  Eily  O'Connor,  an'  she  dressed  in  a  blue  man- 
tle, with  the  hood  over  her  head,  an'  her  hair  curling  down  about 
her  neck  like  strings  o'  goold.  (Oh,  the  beauty  o'  that  girl!) 
Well,  "It's  a  late  walk  you're  taking,  Eily,"  says  I.  She  made 
me  no  answer,  only  passed  on,  an'  I  thought  no  more  about  it  till 
this  morning,  when  her  father  walked  in  to  me.  I  thought,  at 
first,  'tis  to  be  shaved  he  was  coming,  for,  dear  knows,  he  wanted 
it,  when  all  at  once  he  opened  upon  me  in  regard  of  his  daughter. 
Poor  girl,  I'm  sure  sorrow  call  had  I  to  her  goen'  or  stayen'  more 
than  I  had  to  curl  the  Princess  Royal's  front — a  job  that'll  never 
trouble  me,  I'm  thinking.' 

'Wisha,  but  it's  a  droll  business,'  ejaculated  Lowry,  letting  go 
the  stirrup-leather,  which  he  had  held  fast  during  the  foregoing 
narrative.  'Ride  on  after  him,  Dunat,  or  you  won't  catch  him 
before  night.  Oh,  Vo!  Vo!  Eily  astora!  Oh,  wirra,  Eily!  this 
is  the  black  day  to  your  ould  father.' 

'An'  the  black  an'  blue  to  me,  I'm  sure,'  squeaked  out  the  hair- 
cutter,  trotting  forwards  and  groaning  aloud  at  every  motion,  as  he 
was  now  thrown  on  the  pummel,  now  on  the  hind-bow  of  the 
saddle;  those  grievances  telling  the  more  severely  as  he  was  a 
lean  little  man,  and  but  scantily  furnished  by  nature  with  that 
material  which  is  best  able  to  resist  concussion. 

The  misfortune  of  the  poor  ropemaker  indisposed  Lowry  (who 
had  once  been  a  respectful  and  distant  admirer  of  the  lovely  Eily) 
from  proceeding  with  the  conversation,  and  his  young  master  had 
ample  leisure  for  the  indulgence  of  his  own  luxurious  reveries  until 
they  reached  the  entrance  to  the  fair  demesne  of  Castle  Chute. 


CHAPTER 


HOW   THE  READER,   CONTRARY   TO    THE   DECLARED   INTENTION   OF 
THE  HISTORIAN,   OBTAINS   A   DESCRIPTION   OF  CASTLE   CHUTE 


A 


N  old   portress,  talking  Irish,  with  a  huge  bunch  of  keys  at 
her  girdle,  a  rusty  gate-lock,  piers,  lofty,  and  surmounted  by 

60 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

a  pair  of  broken  marble  vases,  while  their  shafts,  far  from  exhibit- 
ing that  appearance  of  solidity  so  much  admired  in  the  relics  of 
Grecian  architecture,  were  adorned  in  all  their  fissures  by  tufts  of 
long  grass;  an  avenue  with  rows  of  elms  forming  a  vista  to  the 
river;  a  sudden  turn  revealing  a  broad  and  sunny  lawn:  hay- 
cocks, mowers  at  work — a  winding  gravel-walk  lost  in  a  grove — 
the  house  appearing  above  the  trees — the  narrow-paned  windows 
glittering  amongst  the  boughs — the  old  ivied  castle,  contrasted  in 
so  singular  a  manner  with  the  more  modern  addition  to  the  build- 
ing— the  daws  cawing  about  the  chimneys — the  stately  herons 
settling  on  the  castellated  turrets,  or  winging  their  majestic  way 
through  the  peaceful  kingdom  of  the  winds — the  screaming  of  a 
peacock  in  the  recesses  of  the  wood — a  green  hill  appearing 
sunny-bright  against  a  clouded  horizon — the  heavy  Norman 
archway — the  shattered  sculpture — the  close  and  fragrant  shrub- 
bery— the  noisy  farmyard  and  out-offices  (built,  as  was  then  the 
fashion,  quite  near  the  dwelling-house) — the  bowering  monthly 
rose,  embracing  the  simple  pediment  over  the  hall-door — 
the  ponderous  knocker — the  lofty  gable — the  pieces  of  broken 
sculpture  and  tender  foliage,  that  presented  to  the  mind  the 
images  of  youth  and  age,  of  ruined  grandeur  and  of  rising 
beauty,  blended  and  wreathed  together  under  the  most  pleasing 
form. 

Such  were  the  principal  features  of  the  scenery  through  which 
Kyrle  Daly  passed  into  the  dwelling  of  his  beloved.  The  neces- 
sities of  our  narrative  forbid  us  to  dwell  at  a  more  ample  length 
on  the  mere  description  of  a  landscape. 

To  his  surprise,  and  in  some  degree  to  his  disappointment,  he 
found  the  castle  more  crowded  with  company  than  he  had  ex- 
pected. He  was  admitted  by  a  richly  ornamented  Gothic  arch- 
way, while  Lowry  remained  walking  his  horse  under  the  shade  of 
the  trees.  A  handsome,  though  rather  ill-used  curricle,  which 
appeared  to  have  been  lately  driven,  was  drawn  up  on  the  gravel- 
plat;  and  a  servant  in  tarnished  livery  was  employed  in  cooling 
two  horses  on  the  slope  which  shelved  downward  to  the  river-side. 
The  foam  that  flecked  their  shining  necks  and  covered  the  curbs 
and  branches,  showed  that  they  had  been  ridden  a  considerable 
distance,  and  by  no  sparing  masters. 

'Oh,  murther,  Masther  Kyrle,  is  this  you?'  exclaimed  Falvey, 
the  '  servant-boy,'  as  he  looked  into  the  narrow  hall  and  recognised 

61 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

the  young  'collegian.'  'Ma  grina  chree  hul  it's  an  opening  to  the 
heart  to  see  you!' 

'Thank  you,  Pat.     Are  the  ladies  at  home?' 

'They  are,  sir.  O  murther,  murther!  are  you  come  at  last  sir ?' 
he  repeated  with  an  air  of  smiling  wonder;  then  suddenly  chang- 
ing his  manner,  and  nodding  with  great  freedom  and  cunning, 
'Oh,  the  ladies? — they  are  at  home,  sir — both  of  'em.' 

'And  well?' 

'And  well.  I  give  praise — both  of  'em  well.  Where  is  the 
horse,  sir?' 

'Lowry  is  walking  him  near  the  shrubbery.' 

'An'  is  Lowry  come,  too?  Oh,  murther,  murther!'  He  ran  to 
the  door  and  looked  out,  nodded  and  raised  his  hand  in  courtesy, 
and  then  hastened  back  to  Kyrle.  'Gi'  me  the  hat,  sir,  an'  I'll 
hang  it  up — poof,  it's  full  o'  dust.  Come  in  here,  Masther  Kyrle, 
an'  I'll  give  you  a  touch  before  you  go  up-stairs — there's  a  power 
o'  quollity  in  the  drawen'-room — an' — here  he  again  cast  down 
his  head  with  a  knowing  smile — 'there's  reasons  for  doin's — the 
ladies  must  be  plaised,  surely.  An'  how  is  Mr.  Daly  an'  herself 
an'  all  of  'em,  sir?  Oh,  murther,  murther!' 

'They  are  all  well,  Pat,  thank  you.' 

'The  Lord  keep  'em  so! — There's  a  sighth  above-stairs  in  the 
new  house.  Mr.  Cregan  of  Roaring  Hall  (ah,  that's  a  rale  sport- 
ing jettleman),  an'  Mr.  Creagh  and  Pincher,  an'  Docthor  Lake, 
and  the  officer,  westwards;'  then  with  another  familiar  wink — 
'there's  the  drollest  cratur  in  life  in  the  servants'  hall  abroad,  the 
officer's  sarvent-boy,  a  Londoner,  afeerd  o'  the  world  that  he'll 
have  his  throat  cut  be  the  Whiteboys  before  he  quits  the  country. 
Poor  cratur!  he  makes  me  laugh,  the  way  he  talks  of  Ireland,  as 
if  he  was  a  marked  man  among  us — the  littly  sprissawneen,  that 
nobody  ever  would  trouble  their  heads  about.  Coming!' — a  bell 
rung.  'That's  for  the  luncheon — I  must  smarten  myself,  or  Miss 
Anne  will  kill  me.  They're  all  going  off,  after  they  take  some- 
thing, to  the  races  near  the  point  below,  where  they 're' to  have  the 
greatest  divarsion  ever  you  hear.  An'  so  the  master  is  well,  east- 
wards? Why  then,  I'm  glad  to  hear  it — that's  a  good  jettleman 
as  ever  sat  down  to  his  own  table.'  The  bell  rang  again.  'O 
murther!  there's  the  bell  again — I'll  be  kilt  entirely!  There  now, 
Masther  Kyrle,  you're  pretty  well,  I  think — they're  all  up-stairs  in 
the  drawen'-room  in  the  new  house.  I  needn't  tell  you  the  way. 

62 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

Syl  Carney  will  open  the  doore  for  you,  an'  I'll  wait  aisy  a  minute, 
for  it  wouldn't  look  seemly  for  me  to  be  taking  in  the  thray  an' 
things  close  behind  you.' 

While  this  communicative  retainer  slipped  away,  napkin  in  hand, 
to  the  pantry,  Kyrle  Daly  ascended  a  corkscrew  flight  of  narrow 
stone  steps,  at  the  head  of  which  he  was  met  by  the  blooming  hand- 
maiden above  named.  Here  he  had  as  many  '  Masther  Kyrle's'  and 
pretty  smiles,  and  officious  though  kindly  meant  attentions  to  under- 
go, as  in  the  narrow  hall.  These  he  repaid  in  the  usual  manner,  by 
complimenting  Syl  on  her  good  looks — wondering  she  had  not  got 
married — and  reminding  her  that  Shrovetide  would  be  shortly 
coming  round  again;  in  return  for  which  the  pretty  Syl  repeatedly 
told  him  that  he  was  '  a  funny  gentleman  '  and  '  a  great  play-boy.' 

They  passed  through  an  old  banqueting-room  which  had  once 
formed  the  scene  of  a  council  of  the  Munster  chieftains  in  the  days 
of  Elizabeth;  and  descending  a  flight  of  a  few  wooden  steps,  stood 
in  the  centre  of  a  lobby  of  much  more  modern  architecture.  Here 
Kyrle  Daly  felt  his  heart  beat  a  little  wildly  as  he  heard  voices  and 
laughter  in  the  adjoining  room.  Modestly  conscious,  however,  of 
his  graceful  person,  and  aware  of  the  importance  of  displaying  it  to 
some  advantage  in  the  eyes  of  his  mistress,  he  adjusted  his  ruffles, 
and  with  something  like  the  feeling  of  a  young  debutant,  conscious 
of  merit,  yet  afraid  of  censure,  made  his  entrance  on  the  little 
domestic  scene. 

The  company  all  rose  and  received  him  with  that  pompous  display 
of  affability  and  attention  which  our  fathers  mistook  for  politeness, 
but  which  their  wiser  descendants  have  discovered  to  be  the  exact 
contrary,  and  have  discarded  from  the  drawing-room,  as  unbefitting 
the  ease  and  sincerity  of  social  life.  Mrs.  Chute  was  unable  to  rise, 
but  her  greeting  was  at  once  cordial  and  dignified.  Anne  gave  him 
her  hand  with  the  air  of  an  affectionate  relative;  Mr.  Hyland  Creagh 
placed  his  heels  together — adjusted  his  ample  shirt  frills,  and  bowed 
until  the  queue  of  his  powdered  wig  culminated  to  the  zenith — 
while  Pincher  wagged  his  tail,  looked  up  at  his  master  as  if  to  inquire 
the  nature  of  his  movements,  and  finally  coiled  himself  up  on  the 
carpet  and  slept;  Mr.  Barnaby  Cregan  gripped  his  hand  until  the 
bones  cracked — expressing,  in  very  concise  language,  a  wish  that 
his  soul  might  be  doomed  to  everlasting  misery  in  the  next  world  if 
he  were  not  rejoiced  to  meet  him;  Doctor  Leake  tendered  him  a 
finger,  which  Kyrle  grasped  hard,  and  (in  revenge  perhaps  for  the 

63 


THE    COLLEGIANS 

punishment  inflicted  on  him  by  Cregan)  shook  with  so  lively  an 
expression  of  regard,  that  the  worthy  physician  was  tempted  to 
repent  his  condescension.  To  the  young  officer,  an  Englishman, 
Kyrle  was  introduced  by  the  formal  course  of — '  Captain  Gibson, 
Mr.  Daly — Mr.  Daly,  Captain  Gibson ' — on  which  they  bowed 
as  coldly  and  stiffly  as  the  figures  in  a  clockmaker's  window  in  Hoi- 
born,  and  all  resumed  their  places. 

After  the  usual  inquiries  into  the  condition  of  both  families  had 
been  made  and  answered,  Kyrle  Daly  indulged  himself  in  a  brief 
perusal  of  the  personal  appearance  of  the  individuals  in  whose 
society  he  was  placed.  The  information  which  he  derived  from  the 
few  glances  that  happened  to  fall  wide  of  Miss  Chute,  shall  here  be 
laid  before  the  reader. 

Mrs.  Chute,  the  venerable  lady  of  the  mansion,  was  seated  in  a 
richly  carved  arm-chair,  near  an  ebony  work-table,  on  which  were 
placed  a  pair  of  silver  spectacles  and  the  last  racing  calendar.  A 
gold-headed  cane  rested  against  her  chair,  and  a  small  spaniel,  in 
the  attitude  which  heralds  term  couchant,  lay  at  her  side,  burlesquing 
the  lion  of  Britannia  in  the  popular  emblem.  In  her  more  youthful 
days,  indeed,  Mrs.  Chute  might  have  assumed  her  part  in  the  latter, 
without  exciting  any  ludicrous  association;  and  even  in  this  decay 
and  mouldering  of  her  womanly  attractions,  there  was  a  grace,  a 
dignity,  a  softened  fire,  and  even  a  beauty  to  be  traced,  which 
awakened  the  spectator's  respect  and  sometimes  warmed  it  into 
admiration.  Old  age,  while  it  took  nothing  away  from  her  dignity, 
had  imparted  to  her  manner  that  air  of  feminine  dependence,  in 
which  she  was  said  to  have  been  somewhat  too  deficient  in  her 
youth,  and  replaced  in  tenderness  and  interest  the  beauty  which  it 
had  removed. 

Her  daughter,  who  bore  a  very  perceptible  resemblance  to  the 
old  lady  in  the  cast  of  her  features,  as  well  as  in  their  expression, 
looked  at  this  moment  exceedingly  beautiful.  A  dark  blue  riding- 
dress  displayed  her  figure  to  such  advantage,  that  if  a  young  sculptor 
could  have  taken  it  as  a  model  for  a  study  of  Minerva,  and  could 
likewise  afford  a  lobster  and  a  bottle  of  sherry  to  a  critic  in  the  '  Fine 
Arts,'  there  is  little  doubt  that  he  would  make  his  fortune.  Her 
hair,  which  was  shining  black,  cut  short  and  curled  so  gracefully, 
that  it  might  vie  with  the  finest  head  in  Mr.  Hope's  book  of  cos- 
tumes, crept  out  from  beneath  her  small  round  hat  and  shaded  a 
countenance  that  glowed  at  this  moment  with  a  sweet  and  fascinat- 

64 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

ing  cheerfulness.  The  common  herd  of  mankind  frequently  exhibit 
personal  anomalies  of  so  curious  a  description  as  to  remind  one  of 
Quevedo's  fanciful  vision  of  the  general  resurrection,  where  one  man 
in  his  hurry  claps  his  neighbour's  head  upon  his  own  shoulders,  and 
the  upper  portion  of  a  turtle-fed  Alderman  is  borne  along  by  the 
trembling  shanks  of  a  starveling  magazine  poet.  But  nothing  of 
this  incongruity  was  observable  in  the  charming  person  of  the  heiress 
of  Castle  Chute.  Her  countenance  was  exquisitely  adapted  both  in 
form  and  character  to  the  rest  of  her  frame;  and  she  might  be  justly 
admired  as  a  piece  of  workmanship  not  intrusted  by  nature  (as  in  a 
pin  manufactory)  to  the  hands  of  nine  journeymen,  but  wrought  out 
and  polished  by  that  great  adept  herself  as  a  sample  of  womankind 
for  the  inspection  of  customers. 

It  was  indeed  remarked  by  those  who  enjoyed  only  a  visiting 
acquaintance  with  Anne  Chute,  that  her  general  manner  was  some- 
what cold  and  distant,  and  that  there  was  in  the  wintry  lustre  of  her 
large  black  eyes,  and  the  noble  carriage  of  her  fine  person,  a  loftiness 
which  repelled  in  the  spectator's  breast  that  enthusiasm  which  her 
beauty  was  calculated  to  awaken,  and  induced  him  to  stop  short  at 
the  feeling  of  simple  admiration.  Hardress  Cregan,  who,  with  all 
his  shyness,  had  the  reputation  of  a  fine  critic  on  these  subjects,  had 
been  heard  to  say  of  her  on  his  return  from  college,  that  '  she  was 
perfect.  Her  form  and  face  were  absolutely  faultless,  and  a  connois- 
seur might  with  a  better  taste  pretend  to  discover  a  fault  in  the  pro- 
portions of  the  Temple  of  Theseus.  But  there,'  he  added, '  I  must 
terminate  my  eulogy;  for  I  could  no  sooner  think  of  loving  such  a 
piece  of  frost-work  than  of  flinging  my  arms  in  ecstasy  around  one 
of  the  Doric  pillars  of  the  old  edifice  itself.' 

But  Hardress  Cregan  had  been  only  once,  and  for  a  few  minutes, 
in  the  lady's  company,  when  he  pronounced  this  judgment.  Neither 
was  he  an  impartial  observer,  for  the  embarrassment  which  he  ex- 
perienced in  consequence  of  her  unconscious  dignity,  made  him 
throw  more  asperity  into  his  criticism  than  the  occasion  actually 
required.  Those  who  enjoyed  a  longer  and  a  nearer  intimacy  with 
Miss  Chute,  found  an  additional  fascination  in  that  very  coldness 
which  kept  ordinary  acquaintances  at  a  distance,  and  which  for 
them  was  so  cheerfully  and  so  willingly  removed.  In  proportion  to 
the  awe  which  it  inspired  on  a  first  introduction,  was  the  delight 
occasioned  by  its  frequent  dissipation,  and  it  gave  to  her  whole 
character  that  effect  of  surprise,  which  is  dangerous  or  available 

65 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

to  the  influence  of  the  fair  possessor,  according  as  the  changes  which 
it  reveals  are  attractive  or  otherwise.  The  feelings  which  accom- 
panied a  growing  intimacy  with  this  lovely  girl  resembled  those  of 
one  who  endeavours,  by  a  feeble  light,  to  discover  the  graces  of  a 
landscape  which  he  knows  to  be  beautiful,  but  which  he  is  unable  to 
appreciate,  until  the  morning  light  streams  in  upon  the  picture,  and 
brings  it  forth  in  all  its  exquisite  reality  before  his  eyes. 

The  remainder  of  the  company  are  not  so  interesting  as  to  claim 
an  equal  portion  of  the  reader's  notice.  Mr.  Barnaby  Cregan,  a 
stout,  top-booted,  elderly  gentleman,  with  a  nose  that  told  tales  of 
many  a  rousing  night,  was  seated  close  to  Mrs.  Chute,  and  deeply 
engaged  in  a  discussion  upon  cocks  and  cockerels,  sparring,  settling, 
impounding,  the  long  law,  the  short  law,  and  every  other  law  that 
had  any  connection  with  his  reigning  passion.  The  rosy  and  red- 
coated  Captain  Gibson,  who  was  a  person  of  talent  and  industry  in 
his  profession,  was  listening  with  much  interest  to  Doctor  Lucas 
Leake,  who  possessed  some  little  antiquarian  skill  in  Irish  remains, 
and  who  was  at  this  moment  unfolding  the  difference  which  existed 
between  the  tactics  of  King  Lugh-Lamh-Fada,  and  those  issued  from 
his  late  most  gracious  Majesty's  War  Office;  between  one  of  King 
Malachy's  hobbilers  and  a  life  guardsman;  and  between  an  English 
halberd  and  a  stone-headed  gai-bulg,  and  between  his  own  commis- 
sion of  lieutenant  and  the  Fear  Comhlan  Caoguid  of  the  Fion  Eirin. 

Mr.  Hyland  Creagh,  who,  as  before  mentioned,  notwithstanding 
the  perfect  maturity  of  his  years,  still  continued  to  affect  the  man  of 
gallantry,  was  standing  near  Miss  Chute,  and  looking  with  a  half- 
puzzled,  half-smiling  air  over  a  drawing  which  she  had  placed 
in  his  hands.  Now  and  then,  as  he  held  the  picture  to  the  light,  he 
looked  askance,  and  with  a  forbidding  expression,  at  Kyrle,  who 
was  carelessly  sauntering  towards  the  fair  object  of  his  attentions, 
and  yet  endeavouring  to  give  his  approximation  rather  the  appear- 
ance of  accident  than  of  design.  Mr.  Creagh's  experience  in  society 
had  long  since  made  him  aware  that  youth  was  a  quality  which  con- 
tributed materially  to  success  with  the  ladies,  and  the  consequence 
of  this  discovery  was  a  hearty  detestation  (a  term  more  qualified 
would  not  express  the  feeling)  of  every  gentleman  who  was  younger 
than  himself.  '  Puppies! '  he  would  exclaim;  '  they  assume  the  air 
and  port  of  men  when  they  should  be  confined  to  bibs  and  frills,  and 
bestride  a  blood-horse  when  their  highest  corvet  should  be  made  in 
the  hall,  on  their  grandfather's  walkingr-cane.'  But  he  had  the 

66 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

mortification  to  find  that  his  sentiments  on  this  head  were  adopted 
by  no  unmarried  ladies  except  those  whose  wisdom  and  experience 
were  equal  to  his  own;  and  about  their  opinions,  unhappily,  Mr. 
Creagh  was  as  indifferent  as  the  young  coxcombs  whom  he 
censured. 

'I  profess  my  ignorance/  he  said,  after  contemplating  the  pict- 
ure for  several  minutes.  'The  drawing  is  admirable — the  colour- 
ing has  a  depth  and  softness  of  tone  that  I  have  seen  rarely 
produced  by  water-colours,  and  the  whole  design  bears  the  stamp 
of  reality  upon  it;  put  I  profess  my  ignorance  of  the  place  which 
you  say  it  is  intended  to  represent.' 

'Indeed!'  said  Anne,  affecting  a  disappointed  tone,  and  pleased 
to  put  the  old  gentleman's  gallantry  to  the  torture.  'Then  it 
must  have  made  a  sad  failure,  for  the  scene  ought  to  be  quite 
familiar  to  you.' 

'I  am  the  worst  person  in  the  world  at  tracing  a  resemblance,' 
said  Mr.  Creagh,  looking  puzzled.  '  Perhaps  it  is  meant  for  Bally- 
lin  Point?' 

'Oh,  Mr.  Creagh,  can  you  find  any  resemblance?  What  a 
wretched  bungler  you  must  think  me!  You  did  well  to  say  meant 
for — that  expression  indicates  so  exactly  the  degree  of  relation 
between  my  sketches  and  the  originals.' 

« 'Pon  my  honour,  Miss  Chute,  'pon  my  honour  as  a  gentle- 
man.' 

'Mr.  Daly!' — Kyrle  flew  to  her  side — 'perhaps  you  could  re- 
store to  me  my  self-esteem.  Do  you  know  that  Mr.  Creagh  has 
mistaken  this  for  a  sketch  of  Ballylin  Point!  Try  if  you  can 
restore  my  credit,  for  it  is  sinking  very  fast,  even  in  my  own 
estimation. ' 

'Ballylin  Point!'  exclaimed  Kyrle,  taking  the  drawing  into 
his  hands — 'I  do  not  see  the  least  resemblance.'  Mr.  Creagh's 
eyes  flashed  fire  at  this  unceremonious  declaration,  but  he  checked 
his  resentment,  and  congratulated  Miss  Chute  on  this  proof,  that 
the  fault  lay  in  his  want  of  observation,  not  in  her  want  of  skill. 
'  'And  do  you  recognize  the  scene?'  continued  Miss  Chute,  who 
was  well  aware  of  the  old  servente's  foible,  and  loved  to  toy  with 
it  for  her  amusement.  '  Let  me  hear  if  I  have  been  indeed  so  very 
unsuccessful.' 

Her  lover  delayed  answering,  not  because  he  shared  the  diffi- 
culty of  Mr.  Creagh,  but  that  he  was  wrapt  in  admiration  of  the 

67 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

drawing.  It  was  an  interesting  landscape,  and  finished  with 
more  taste  and  fineness  of  touch  than  are  usually  to  be  traced  in 
the  efforts  of  accomplished  young  ladies.  The  foreground  of  the 
picture  exhibited  a  grassy  slope,  which  formed  a  kind  of  penin- 
sula in  a  magnificent  sheet  of  water,  running  a  little  to  the  left, 
and  terminating  at  what  artists  term  the  middle  distance  in  a 
gracefully  wooded  point.  The  remains  of  an  old  castle  appeared 
among  the  trees,  the  gloom  and  majesty  of  which  were  exhibited 
in  a  striking  degree,  by  a  brilliant  effect  of  sunshine  on  water  and 
on  the  green  slope  above  mentioned.  Two  small  islands,  afford- 
ing an  anchorage  to  some  open  boats,  broke  the  expanse  of  water 
on  the  right;  while  the  small  bay,  formed  by  the  point  before 
described,  on  the  left,  was  graced  by  the  figures  of  fishermen  in 
the  act  of  casting  their  nets.  The  waters  were  bounded  in  the 
distance  by  a  range  of  blue  hills,  some  of  which  projected  into 
rocky  or  wooded  headlands;  while  the  whole  was  softened  by  that 
deep  and  rich  blue  tint,  which  is  peculiar  to  the  moist  atmosphere 
of  the  climate;  and  by  imparting  at  once  distinctness  and  soft- 
ness to  the  landscape,  is  far  better  adapted  to  scenes  of  rural  soli- 
tude than  even  the  lonely  splendour  of  a  Tuscan  sun. 

'Ballylin!'  echoed  Mr.  Cregan,  who  had  walked  over  to  look 
at  the  drawing.  '  'Tis  as  like  Ballylin  as  Roaring  Hall  is  to  Dublin 
Castle.  'Tis  Castle  Chute,  and  right  well  touched  off,  too,  by 
Jingo ! '  To  this  observation  he  added,  in  language  which  the 
altered  customs  of  society  prevent  our  copying  verbatim,  that  he 
wished  the  spiritual  foe  of  the  human  race  might  lay  hold  of  him, 
if  it  were  not  an  admirable  resemblance. 

Mr.  Creagh  had  his  own  reasons  for  not  taking  offence  at  any 
resentment  that  was  urged  by  his  good  friend  and  frequent  host, 
Mr.  Cregan,  but  he  did  not  forget  the  difference  of  opinion  that 
was  hazarded  by  his  young  acquaintance.  To  the  fair  artist's 
raillery,  he  replied  with  a  bow  and  an  air  of  old-fashioned  polite- 
ness, that '  frequently  as  he  had  had  the  honour  of  visiting  at  Castle 
Chute,  he  was  yet  unfamiliar  with  the  scenery,  for  his  thoughts 
in  approaching  it  were  exclusively  occupied  by  one  object.' 

'  And  even  though  they  were  at  liberty,'  added  Kyrle,  '  it  is  more 
than  probable  Mr.  Creagh  has  never  seen  Castle  Chute  at  this 
point  of  view,  so  that  it  could  hardy  be  expected  to  remain  in 
his  recollection.'  Then  moving  closer  to  Anne,  and  speaking  in 
a  lower  tone  of  voice,  he  said — 'This  is  the  very  scene  of  which 

68 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

I  told  you  Hardress  Cregan  was  so  enthusiastic  an  admirer.    You 
have  drawn  it  since?' 

Miss  Chute  answered  in  the  affirmative,  and  turning  quickly 
away,  replaced  the  sketch  in  her  portfolio.  Then,  turning  to 
Creagh,  she  told  him  that  he  would  be  very  shortly  qualified  to 
give  an  opinion  as  to  the  fidelity  of  her  design,  for  they  would  pass 
the  spot  in  question,  on  their  way  to  the  little  race-course.  There 
was  some  farther  conversation,  not  worth  detailing,  on  the  sub- 
ject of  Hardress  Cregan's  salute — and  some  conjectures  were  haz- 
arded concerning  the  female  in  the  blue  cloak,  none  of  which, 
however,  threw  any  certain  light  upon  that  mystery. 


CHAPTER  IX 

HOW  MYLES  MURPHY  IS  HEARD  ON  BEHALF  OF  HIS  PONIES 

PAT  FALVEY,  supposing  that  he  had  remained  a  sufficient 
time  without,  to  prevent  the  suspicion  of  any  private  under- 
standing between  him  and  Mr.  Daly,  now  made  his  appearance 
with  luncheon.  A  collared  head  cream  cheese,  honey,  a  decanter 
of  gooseberry  wine,  and  some  garden  fruit,  were  speedily  arranged 
on  the  table,  and  the  visitors,  no  way  loth,  were  pressed  to  make 
a  liberal  use  of  the  little  banquet;  for  the  time  had  not  yet  gone 
by  when  people  imagined  that  they  could  not  display  their  regard 
for  a  friend  or  guest  more  effectually  than  by  cramming  him  up 
to  the  throat  with  food  and  strong  drink.  Kyrle  Daly  was  in 
the  act  of  taking  wine  with  Mrs.  Chute,  when  he  observed  Fal- 
vey  stoop  to  his  young  mistress's  ear,  and  whisper  something  with 
a  face  of  much  seriousness. 

'A  boy  wanting  to  speak  to  me?'  said  Miss  Chute.  'Has  he 
got  letters? — Let  him  send  up  his  message.' 

'He  says  he  must  see  yourself,  Miss.  'Tis  in  regard  of  some 
ponies  of  his  that  were  impounded  be  Mr.  Dawley  for  trespassing 
above  here,  last  night.  He  hasn't  the  mains  of  releasing  'em, 
poor  cratur,  an'  he's  far  from  home.  I'm  sure  he's  an  honest 
boy.  He  says  he'd  have  a  good  friend  in  Mr.  Cregan  if  he  knew 
he  was  below.' 

'  Me  ? '  said  Mr.  Cregan — '  why,  what's  the  fellow's  name  ? ' 

69 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'Myles  Murphy,  sir,  from  Killarney  westwards.' 

'Oh,  Myles-na-coppuleen ? — Poor  fellow,  is  he  in  tribulation? 
We  must  have  his  ponies  out  by  all  means.' 

'It  requires  more  courage  than  I  can  always  command,'  said 
Miss  Chute,  'to  revoke  any  command  of  Dawley's.  He  is  an  old 
man,  and  whether  that  he  was  crossed  in  love,  or  from  a  natural 
peevishness  of  disposition,  he  is  such  a  morose  creature,  that  I 
am  quite  afraid  of  him.  But  I  will  hear  this  Myles  at  all  events.' 

She  was  moving  to  the  door  when  her  uncle's  voice  made  her 
turn.  'Stay,  Anne,'  said  Mr.  Cregan,  'let  him  come  up.  'Twill 
be  as  good  as  a  play  to  hear  him  and  the  steward  pro  and  con. 
Kyrle  Daly,  here,  who  is  intended  for  the  bar,  will  be  our  assessor 
to  decide  on  the  points  of  law.  I  can  tell  you,  Kyrle,  that  Myles 
will  give  you  a  lesson  in  the  art  of  pleading  that  may  be  of  use  to 
you  on  Circuit  at  one  time  or  another.' 

Anne  laughed  and  looked  to  Mrs.  Chute,  who  with  a  smile  of 
tolerating  condescension  said,  while  she  cleared  with  a  silken  ker- 
chief the  glasses  of  her  spectacles,  'If  your  uncle  desires  it,  my 
love,  I  can  see  no  objection.  Those  mountaineers  are  amusing 
creatures.' 

Anne  returned  to  her  seat,  and  the  conversation  proceeded, 
while  Falvey  with  an  air  of  great  and  perplexed  importance  went 
to  summon  Myles  up-stairs. 

'Mountaineers!'  exclaimed  Captain  Gibson;  'you  call  every 
upland  a  mountain  here  in  Ireland,  and  every  one  that  lives  out 
of  sight  of  the  sea  a  mountaineer.' 

'But  this  fellow  is  a  genuine  mountaineer,'  cried  Mr.  Cregan, 
'with  a  cabin  two  thousand  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea.  If 
you  are  in  the  country  next  week,  and  will  come  down  and  see  us 
at  the  Lakes,  along  with  our  friends  here,  I  promise  to  show  you 
as  sturdy  a  race  of  mountaineers  as  any  in  Europe.  Doctor  Leake 
can  give  you  a  history  of  'em  up  to  Noah's  flood,  some  time  when 
you're  alone  together — where  the  country  was  first  peopled  by 
one  Parable  or  Sparable.' 

'Paralon,'  said  Doctor  Leake,  'Paralon  of  Migdonia,  as  the 
Psalter  sings: 

"On  the  fourteenth  day,  being  Tuesday, 

They  brought  their  bold  ships  to  anchor 
In  the  blue  fair  port  with  beauteous  shore, 
Of  well-defended  Inver  Sceine,"  '- 

70 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

'In  the  rest  of  Minister,  where — ' 

'Yes — well,  you'll  see  'em  all,  as  the  doctor  says,  if  you  come 
to  Killarney,'  resumed  Mr.  Cregan,  interrupting  the  latter,  to 
whose  discourse,  a  country  residence,  a  national  turn  of  charac- 
ter, and  a  limited  course  of  reading,  had  given  a  tinge  of  pedantry; 
and  who  was,  moreover,  a  firm  believer  in  all  the  ancient  Shana- 
chus,  from  the  yellow  book  of  Moling  to  the  black  book  of  Molaga. 
'And  if  you  like  to  listen  to  him,  he'll  explain  to  you  every  action 
that  ever  befell,  on  land  or  water,  from  Ross  Castle  up  to  Carrig- 
uline.' 

Kyrle,  who  felt  both  surprise  and  concern  at  learning  that  Miss 
Chute  was  leaving  home  so  soon,  and  without  having  thought  it 
worth  her  while  to  make  him  aware  of  her  intention,  was  about 
to  address  her  on  the  subject,  when  the  clatter  of  a  pair  of  heavy 
and  well-paved  brogues  on  the  small  flight  of  stairs  in  the  lobby, 
produced  a  sudden  hush  of  expectation  amongst  the  company. 
They  heard  Pat  Falvey  urging  some  instructions,  in  a  low  and 
smothered  tone,  to  which  a  strong  and  not  unmusical  voice  re- 
plied in  that  complaining  accent  which  distinguishes  the  dialect 
of  the  more  western  descendants  of  Heber.  'A'  lay  me  alone, 
you  foolish  boy;  do  you  think  did  I  ever  speak  to  quollity  in  my 
life  before?' 

The  door  opened,  and  the  uncommissioned  master  of  horse 
made  his  appearance.  His  figure  was  at  once  strikingly  majestic 
and  prepossessing,  and  the  natural  ease  and  dignity  with  which 
he  entered  the  room  might  almost  have  become  a  peer  of  the  realm, 
coming  to  solicit  the  interest  of  the  family  for  an  electioneering 
candidate.  A  broad  and  sunny  forehead,  light  and  wavy  hair, 
a  blue,  cheerful  eye,  a  nose  that  in  Persia  might  have  won  him  a 
throne,  healthful  cheeks,  a  mouth  that  was  full  of  character,  and 
a  well-knit  and  almost  gigantic  person,  constituted  his  external 
claims  to  attention;  of  which  his  lofty  and  confident,  although 
most  unassuming  carriage,  showed  him  to  be  in  some  degree 
conscious.  He  wore  a  complete  suit  of  brown  frieze,  with  a  gay- 
coloured  cotton  handkerchief  around  his  neck,  blue  worsted  stock- 
ings, and  brogues  carefully  greased,  while  he  held  in  his  right  hand 
an  immaculate  felt  hat,  the  purchase  of  the  preceding  day's  fair. 
In  the  left  he  held  a  straight-handled  whip  and  a  wooden  rattle, 
which  he  used  for  the  purpose  of  collecting  his  ponies  when  they 
happened  to  straggle.  An  involuntary  murmur  of  admiration 

71 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

ran  amongst  the  guests  at  his  entrance.  Doctor  Leake  was  heard 
to  pronounce  him  a  true  Gadelian,  and  Captain  Gibson  thought 
he  would  cut  a  splendid  figure  in  a  helmet  and  cuirass,  under  one 
of  the  arches  in  the  Horse  Guards. 

Before  he  had  spoken,  and  while  the  door  yet  remained  open, 
Hyland  Creagh  roused  Pincher  with  a  chirping  noise,  and  gave 
him  the  well-known  countersign  of  '  Baithershin ! ' 

Pincher  waddled  towards  the  door,  raised  himself  on  his 
hind-legs,  closed  it  fast,  and  then  trotted  back  to  his  master's 
feet,  followed  by  the  staring  and  bewildered  gaze  of  the  moun- 
taineer. 

'Well,'  he  exclaimed,  'that  flogs  cock-fighting.  I  never  thought 
I'd  live  to  have  a  dog  taich  me  manners,  anyway.  "Baithershin!" 
says  he.  An'  he  shets  the  doore  like  a  Christian!' 

The  mountaineer  now  commenced  a  series  of  most  profound 
obeisances  to  every  individual  of  the  company,  beginning  with 
the  ladies,  and  ending  with  the  officer;  after  which  he  remained 
glancing  from  one  to  another,  with  a  smile  of  mingled  sadness  and 
courtesy,  as  if  waiting,  like  an  evoked  spirit,  the  spell-word  of  the 
enchantress  who  had  called  him  up.  "Tisn't  manners  to  speak 
first  before  quollity,'  was  the  answer  he  would  have  been  pre- 
pared to  render  in  case  any  one  had  inquired  the  motive  of  his 
conduct. 

'Well,  Myles,  what  wind  has  brought  you  to  this  part  of  the 
country?'  said  Mr.  Barnaby  Cregan. 

'The  ould  wind  always,  then,  Mr.  Cregan,'  said  Myles  with 
another  deep  obeisance,  'seeing  would  I  get  a  feow  o'  the  ponies 
off.  Long  life  to  you,  sir;  I  was  proud  to  hear  you  wor  above- 
stairs,  for  it  isn't  the  first  time  you  stood  my  friend  in  trouble.  My 
father  (the  heavens  be  his  bed  this  day!)  was  a  fosterer  o'  your 
Uncle  Mick's,  an'  a  first  an'  second  cousin,  be  the  mother's  side, 
to  ould  Mrs.  O'Leary,  your  honour's  aunt,  westwards.  So  'tis 
kind  for  your  honour  to  have  a  leaning  towards  uz.' 

'A  clear  case,  Myles;  but  what  have  you  to  say  to  Mrs.  Chute 
about  the  trespass?' 

'What  have  I  to  say  to  her?  why  then,  a  deal.  It's  a  long  while 
since  I  see  her  now,  an'  she  wears  finely,  the  Lord  bless  her!  Ah, 
Miss  Anne! — Oyeh,  murther!  murther!  Sure  I'd  know  that  face 
all  over  the  world — your  own  liven'  image,  ma'am'  (turning  to 
Mrs.  Chute),  'an'  a  little,  dawney  touch  o'  the  masther  (heaven 

72 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

rest  his  soul!)  about  the  chin.    You'd  think.    My  grandmother 
an'  himself  wor  third  cousins.     Oh,  vo!  vo!'* 

'He  has  made  out  three  relations  in  the  company  already,' 
said  Anne,  to  Kyrle;  'could  any  courtier  make  interest  more  skil- 
fully?' 

'Well,  Myles,  about  the  ponies.' 

'Poor  craturs,  true  for  you,  sir.  There's  Mr.  Creagh,  there 
(long  life  to  him!)  knows  how  well  I  airn  'em,  for  ponies.  You 
seen  what  trouble  I  had  with  'em,  Mr.  Creagh,  the  day  you  fought 
the  jewel  with  young  M'Farlane  from  the  North.  They  went 
skelping  like  mad,  over  the  hills,  down  to  Glena,  when  they  heerd 
the  shots.  Ah,  indeed,  Mr.  Creagh,  you  cowed  the  North  Coun- 
tryman that  morning  fairly.  "My  honour  is  satisfied,"  says  he, 
"if  Mr.  Creagh  will  apologize."  "I  didn't  come  to  the  ground 
to  apologize,"  says  Mr.  Creagh.  "It's  what  I  never  done  to 
any  man,"  says  he,  "an'  it'll  be  long  from  me  to  do  it  to  you." 
"Well,  my  honour  is  satisfied  anyway,"  says  the  other,  when  he 
heerd  the  pistols  cocking  for  a  second  shot.  I  thought  I'd  split 
laughing.' 

'Pooh!  pooh!  nonsense,  man,'  said  Creagh,  endeavouring  to 
hide  a  smile  of  gratified  vanity;  'your  unfortunate  ponies  will 
starve  while  you  stay  inventing  wild  stories.' 

'He  has  gained  another  friend  since,'  whispered  Miss  Chute. 

'Invent!'  echoed  the  mountaineer.  'There's  Docthor  Leake 
was  on  the  spot  the  same  time,  an'  he  knows  if  I  invent.  An' 
you  did  a  good  job,  too,  that  time,  docthor,'  he  continued,  turning 
to  the  latter;  'Old  Keys,  the  piper,  gives  it  up  to  you  of  all  the 
docthors  going,  for  curing  his  eye-sighth.  And  he  has  a  great 
leaning  to  you,  moreover,  you're  such  a  fine  Irishman.'^ 

'Another,'  said  Miss  Chute,  apart. 

'Yourself  an'  ould  Mr.  Daly,'  he  continued;  I  hope  the  master 
is  well  in  his  health,  sir?'  (turning  to  Kyrle  with  another  pro- 
found conge}  'may  the  Lord  fasten  the  life  in  you  an'  him! 
That's  a  gentleman  that  wouldn't  see  a  poor  boy  in  want  of 
his  supper,  or  a  bed  to  sleep  in,  an'  he  far  from  his  own  people, 
nor  persecute  him  in  regard  of  a  little  trespass  that  was  done 
unknownst.' 

*  Equivalent  to  the  French  Helas  I    the  Italian  Oimel    and  the 
Spanish  Ay  de  mi!  &c. 
t  One  skilled  in  the  Irish  antiquities,  language,  &c. 

73 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'This   fellow  is  irresistible,'  said   Kyrle.     'A  perfect  Ulysses.' 

'And  have  you  nothing  to  say  to  the  Captain,  Myles?  Is  he 
no  relation  of  yours  ? ' 

'The  Captain,  Mr.  Cregan?  Except  in  so  far  as  we  are  all 
servants  of  the  Almighty,  and  children  of  Adam,  I  know  of  none. 
But  I  have  a  feeling  for  the  red  coat,  for  all.  I  have  three  brothers 
in  the  army,  serving  in  America.  One  of  'em  was  made  a  corpo- 
ral, or  an  admiral,  or  some  ral  or  another,  for  behavin'  well  at 
Quaybec,  the  time  of  Woulf's  death.  The  English  showed  them- 
selves a  great  people  that  day,  surely.' 

Having  thus  secured  to  himself  what  lawyers  call  'the  ear  of 
the  court,'  the  mountaineer  proceeded  to  plead  the  cause  of  his 
ponies  with  much  force  and  pathos,  dwelling  on  their  distance 
from  home,  their  wild  habits  of  life,  which  left  them  ignorant  of 
the  common  rules  of  boundaries,  enclosures,  and  field-gates,  set- 
ting forth  with  equal  emphasis,  the  length  of  road  they  had  trav- 
elled, their  hungry  condition,  and  the  barrenness  of  the  common 
on  which  they  had  been  turned  out;  and  finally  urging  in  miti- 
gation of  penalty,  the  circumstance  of  this  being  a  first  offence, 
and  the  improbability  of  its  being  ever  renewed  in  future. 

The  surly  old  steward,  Dan  Dawley,  was  accordingly  summoned 
for  the  purpose  of  ordering  the  discharge  of  the  prisoners,  a  com- 
mission which  he  received  with  a  face  as  black  as  winter.  Miss 
Anne  might  'folly  her  liking'  he  said — but  it  was  the  last  time 
he'd  ever  trouble  himself  about  damage  or  trespass  any  more. 
What  affair  was  it  of  his,  if  all  the  horses  in  the  barony  were  turned 
loose  into  the  kitchen  garden  itself? 

1  Horses,  do  you  call  'em?'  exclaimed  Myles,  bending  on  the 
old  man  a  frown  of  dark  remonstrance — 'a  parcel  of  little  ponies 
not  the  height  o'  that  chair.' 

'What  signify  is  it?'  snarled  the  steward — 'they'd  eat  as  much, 
an'  more,  than  a  racer.' 

'Is  it  they,  the  craturs?  They'd  hardly  injure  a  plate  o'  stir- 
about if  it  was  put  before  'em.' 

'Ayeh!— hugh!' 

'An'  'tisn't  what  I'd  expect  from  you,  Mr.  Dawley,  to  be  going 
again  a  relation  o'  your  own  in  this  manner.' 

'A  relation  o'  mine!'  growled  Dawley,  scarcely  deigning  to 
cast  a  glance  back  over  his  shoulder  as  he  hobbled  out  of  the  room. 

'Yes,  then,  o'  yours.' 

74 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

Dawley  paused  at  the  door  and  looked  back. 

'Will  you  deny  it  o'  me,  if  you  can,'  continued  Myles,  fixing 
his  eye  on  him,  'that  Biddy  Nale,  your  own  gossip,  an'  Larry 
Foley  wor  second  cousins?  Deny  that  o'  me,  if  you  can!' 

'  For  what  would  I  deny  it  ? ' 

'Well,  why!  An'  Larry  Foley  was  uncle  to  my  father's  first 
wife — (the  angels  spread  her  bed  this  night!)  An'  I  tell  you  an- 
other thing,  the  Dawleys  would  cut  a  poor  figure  in  many  a  fair 
westwards,  if  they  hadn't  the  Murphys  to  back  'em,  so  they  would. 
But  what  hurt?  Sure  you  can  folly  your  own  pleasure.' 

The  old  steward  muttered  something  which  nobody  could  hear 
and  left  the  room.  Myles  of  the  ponies,  after  many  profound 
bows  to  all  his  relations,  and  a  profusion  of  thanks  to  the  ladies, 
followed  him,  and  was  observed  in  a  few  minutes  after  on  the 
avenue  talking  with  much  earnestness  and  apparent  agitation 
to  Lowry  Looby.  Kyrle  Daly,  who  remembered  the  story  of  the 
mountaineer's  misfortune  at  Owen's  garden,  concluded  that  Lowry 
was  making  him  aware  of  the  abduction  of  the  beautiful  Eily,  and 
felt  a  pang  of  sympathetic  affliction  for  the  poor  fellow,  in  which, 
probably,  no  one  else  in  the  room  would  have  participated;  at 
least,  not  altogether  so  deeply. 


CHAPTER   X 

HOW    KYRLE    DALY  SPED    IN    HIS    WOOING 

THE  sun  was  in  the  west  when  the  party  arrived  at  the  bridle- 
road  that  turned  off  to  the  race-ground.  To  Kyrle  Daly's 
great  delight,  Mr.  Cregan  had  taken  his  horse,  resigning  to  him 
the  agreeable  office  of  driving  Anne  Chute  in  the  curricle,  while 
he  rode  forward  with  the  gentlemen.  Seldom,  indeed,  I  believe, 
did  the  wheels  of  that  vehicle  enter  so  many  ruts,  or  come  in  con- 
tact with  so  many  obstacles  as  in  this  short  drive,  a  circumstance 
rather  to  be  attributed  to  the  perplexity  of  the  driver's  mind,  than 
to  any  deficiency  of  skill  or  practice  in  his  hand. 

None  of  the  company  knew,  or  indeed  cared  to  be  informed, 
what  the  nature  of  the  conversation  was  which  had  passed  between 
Miss  Chute  and  her  young  escort,  on  the  road.  They  observed, 

75 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

however,  when  the  curricle  drew  up,  that  Kyrle  looked  pale  and 
flurried,  and  that  his  manner  was  absent;  while  that  of  his  fair 
companion  was  marked  by  an  unusual  degree  of  seriousness,  not 
unmingled  with  confusion. 

'What!'  exclaimed  Cregan,  'you  look  as  ruffled  as  if  you  had 
been  sparring.  Get  your  hutts  in  order,  then,  for  you  must  be 
set  again  before  you  come  to  the  ground.  You  have  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  through  the  fields  to  travel  yet.' 

'Why,  uncle,  does  not  the  road  sweep  by  it?' 

'No  nearer  than  I  tell  you;  and  the  curricle  can  go  no  further. 
Come,  Creagh,  give  my  niece  her  little  hunter,  and  walk  with  me 
across  the  fields.  Mr.  Daly,  I  resign  your  seat  to  you  once  more. 
A  pretty-stepping  thing  this  is  of  yours.  I'd  like  to  see  her  tried 
with  ten  or  twelve  stone  weight  at  a  steeple-chase.' 

'Do  not,'  said  Kyrle,  in  a  low  and  earnest  tone,  addressing 
Anne  Chute,  'do  not,  I  entreat  of  you,  deprive  me  of  this  last 
opportunity.  I  would  give  the  world  for  a  minute's  conversation.' 

'I  believe  I  shall  walk,  uncle,'  said  the  young  lady  with  some 
hesitation,  'and  Mr.  Daly  is  kind  enough  to  say  he  will  accom- 
pany me  on  foot.' 

'With  all  my  heart,'  cried  the  cock-fighter.  'I  remember  the 
time,  Daly,  when  I  would  not  have  given  up  a  walk  through  the 
fields  with  a  fine  girl  on  a  sunshiny  evening,  for  all  the  races  in 
Munster.  If  Hepton  Connolly  be  on  the  ground,  as  his  insolent 
groom  tells  me  he  is,  I  will  make  him  keep  the  staggeens  at  the 
starting-post  until  you  come  up.' 

So  saying,  he  rode  on  with  the  ci-devant  sweater,  to  overtake 
the  doctor  and  captain,  who,  he  observed,  had  grown  as  thick  as 
two  pickpockets  since  morning. 

'I'm  afraid,'  said  Kyrle,  with  a  mixture  of  dignity  and  disap- 
pointment in  his  manner,  'I  am  afraid,  Miss  Chute,  that  you  will 
think  this  importunate,  after  what  you  have  already  told  me. 
But  that  rejection  was  so  sudden — I  will  not  say  so  unexpected — 
that  I  cannot  avoid  entering  more  at  length  into  the  subject.  Be- 
sides, it  may,  it  must  be  a  long  time  before  we  shall  meet  again.' 

'I  am  sorry  you  should  think  that  necessary,  Mr.  Daly,'  said 
Anne.  'I  always  liked  you  as  a  friend,  and  there  is  not  a  person 
I  know  whose  society,  in  that  light,  I  could  prize  more  highly; 
but  if  you  think  it  necessary  to  your  own  peace  of  mind  to  remain 
away  from  us,  it  would  be  very  unreasonable  in  me  to  murmur. 

76 


The  wind  had  blown  back  the  hood  from  her  shoulders. 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

Yet,  I  think,  and  hope,'  she  added,  affecting  a  smiling  air  as  she 
looked  round  upon  him,  'that  it  will  not  be  long  before  we  shall 
see  you  again  with  altered  sentiments,  and  a  mind  as  much  at 
ease  as  ever.' 

'You  do  me  wrong,  Anne!'  said  Kyrle,  with  sudden  passion. 
'  I  am  not  so  ignorant  of  my  own  character  as  to  suppose  that  pos- 
sible. No,  Miss  Chute.  This  is  not  with  me  a  boyish  fancy — 
a  predilection  suddenly  formed,  and  capable  of  being  just  as  sud- 
denly laid  aside.  If  you  had  said  this  last  summer,  a  few  weeks 
after  I  first  saw  you,  the  remark  perhaps  might  have  been  made 
with  justice.  I  knew  little  of  you  then,  besides  your  beauty,  your 
talents,  and  your  accomplishments;  and  I  will  say,  in  justice  to 
myself,  that  those  qualities  in  any  woman  never  could  so  deeply 
fix  or  interest  me  as  to  produce  any  lasting  disquiet  in  my  mind. 
But  our  acquaintance  has  been  since  too  much  prolonged.  I 
have  seen  you  too  often — I  have  known  you  too  well — I  have 
loved  you  too  deeply,  and  too  sincerely,  to  feel  this  disappointment 
as  anything  less  than  a  dreadful  stroke.  Let  me  entreat  of  you,' 
he  continued  with  increasing  warmth,  and  disregarding  the  ef- 
forts which  Miss  Chute  made  to  interrupt  him,  'let  me  implore 
you  to  recall  that  hasty  negative.  You  said  you  were  unprepared, 
that  you  djd  not  expect  such  a  proposal  from  me.  I  do  not  press 
you  to  an  answer  at  this  moment;  the  torture  of  suspense  itself  is 
preferable  to  absolute  despair.  Say  you  will  think  of  it,  say  any- 
thing rather  than  at  once  decide  on  my — destruction,  I  cannot 
but  call  it.' 

'I  must  not,  I  will  not  act  with  so  much  injustice,'  said  Anne, 
who  was  considerably  distressed  by  the  depth  of  feeling  that  was 
evident  in  her  lover's  voice  and  manner.  I  should  be  treating  you 
most  unfairly,  Mr.  Daly,  if  I  did  so.  It  is  true  that  I  did  not 
expect  such  a  declaration  as  you  have  made,  not  in  the  least;  but 
my  decision  is  taken,  notwithstanding.  It  is  impossible  I  can 
ever  give  you  any  other  answer  than  you  have  already  received. 
Do  not,  I  will  entreat  of  you  in  my  turn,  give  way  to  any  ground- 
less expectations,  any  idea  of  a  change  of  sentiments  on  this  sub- 
ject. It  is  as  impossible  we  should  ever  be  united  as  if  we  lived 
in  two  separate  planets.' 

The  unhappy  suitor  looked  the  very  image  of  pale  and  ghastly 
despair  itself.  His  eye  wandered,  his  cheek  grew  wan,  and  every 
muscle  in  his  face  quivered  with  passion.  His  words,  for  several 

77 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

moments,  were  so  broken  as  to  approach  a  degree  of  incoherency, 
and  his  knees  trembled  with  a  sickly  faintness.  He  continued, 
nevertheless,  to  urge  his  addresses.  Might  he  not  be  favoured 
with  Miss  Chute's  reasons?  Was  there  anything  in  his  own  con- 
duct? Anything  that  might  be  altered?  The  dejection  that 
was  in  his  accents  as  well  as  in  his  appearance  touched  and  almost 
terrified  his  obdurate  mistress,  and  she  took  some  pains  to  allevi- 
ate his  extreme  despondency,  without,  however,  affording  the 
slightest  ground  for  a  hope  which  she  felt  could  never  be  accom- 
plished. The  consolations  which  she  employed  were  drawn  rather 
from  the  probability  of  a  change  in  his  sentiments  than  her  own. 

'You  are  not  in  a  condition,'  she  said,  'to  judge  of  the  state  of 
your  own  mind.  Believe  me,  this  depression  will  not  continue 
as  you  seem  to  fear.  The  Almighty  is  too  just  to  interweave  any 
passion  with  our  nature  which  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  our  reason 
to  subdue.' 

'Aye,  Anne,'  said  Kyrle,  'but  there  are  some  persons  for  whose 
happiness  the  struggle  is  quite  sufficient.  I  am  not  so  ignorant 
as  you  suppose  of  the  effect  of  a  disappointment  like  this.  I  know 
that  it  will  not  be  at  all  times  as  violent  and  oppressive  as  I  feel 
it  at  this  moment;  but  I  know,  too,  that  it  will  be  as  lasting  as 
life  itself.  I  have  often  experienced  a  feeling  of  regret  that 
amounted  to  actual  pain,  in  looking  back  to  years  that  have  been 
distinguished  by  little  beyond  the  customary  enjoyments  of  boy- 
hood. Imagine,  then,  if  you  can,  whether  I  have  not  reason  to 
apprehend  the  arrival  of  those  hours  when  I  shall  sit  alone  in  the 
evening,  and  think  of  the  time  that  was  spent  in  your  society ! ' 

Miss  Chute  heard  this  speech  with  a  feeling  of  deep  and  even 
sympathetic  emotion.  As  Kyrle  ventured  to  glance  at  her  coun- 
tenance, and  observed  the  peculiar  expression  of  her  sorrow,  the 
idea  of  a  rival,  which  till  that  moment  had  not  once  occurred  to 
him,  now  flashed  upon  his  mind,  and  changed  the  current  of  his 
feelings  to  a  new  direction.  The  sentiment  of  jealousy  was  al- 
most a  useful  stimulus,  in  the  excessive  dejection  under  which 
he  laboured. 

'Will  you  forgive  me,'  he  said,  'and  take  the  present  state  of 
my  feelings  as  an  apology,  if  there  should  be  anything  offensive 
in  the  question  I  am  about  to  ask  you?  There  can  be  only  one 
reason  for  my  rejection  which  would  save  my  pride  the  mortifica- 
tion of  believing  myself  altogether  unworthy.  I  should  feel  some 

78 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

consolation  in  knowing  that  my  own  misery  was  instrumental 
to  your  happiness;  indeed,  I  should  not  think  of  breathing  another 
word  upon  the  subject  if  I  thought  that  your  affections  had  been 
already  engaged.' 

The  agitation  seemed  now  to  have  passed  over  to  the  lady's 
side.  Her  brow  became  dark  red,  and  then  returned  to  more 
than  its  accustomed  whiteness.  'I  have  no  other  engagement,' 
she  said,  after  a  pause — 'if  I  had,  I  should  think  it  hardly  fair  to 
press  an  enquiry.  But,  I  assure  you,  I  have  none.  And  since 
you  have  spoken  of  my  own  views  in  life,  I  will  be  more  explicit, 
and  confess  to  you,  that  I  do  not  at  present  think  it  is  likely  I  shall 
ever  contract  any.  I  love  my  mother,  and  her  society  is  all  that 
I  desire  or  hope  to  enjoy  at  present.  Let  me  now  entreat  you, 
as  a  friend,  for  my  sake  as  well  as  your  own,  never  again  to 
renew  any  conversation  on  this  subject.' 

This  was  said  in  a  tone  of  such  decision,  that  Kyrle  saw  it  would 
be  impossible,  without  hazarding  the  loss  of  the  young  lady's 
friendship,  to  add  another  word  of  remonstrance  or  of  argument. 
Both,  therefore,  continued  their  walk  in  silence,  nor  did  they  ex- 
change even  an  indifferent  observation  until  they  reached  the 
summit  of  the  little  slope  from  which  the  course  was  visible. 

Their  thoughts,  however,  were  not  subjected  to  the  same  re- 
striction and  the  train  of  reflection  in  either  case  was  not  calculated 
to  awaken  envy. 

'She  received  my  question  with  embarrassment,'  thought  Kyrle, 
'and  she  evaded  a  reply.  I  have  a  rival,  it  is  evident,  and  a  favoured 
at  least,  if  not  a  declared  one.  Well,  if  she  is  to  be  happy,  I  am 
content;  but  unquestionably  the  most  miserable  contented  man 
upon  the  earth.' 

The  lady's  meditations  also  turned  upon  the  same  crisis  in  the 
conversation.  'All  that  I  desire?'  she  mentally  repeated,  quot- 
ing her  own  words  to  her  rejected  suitor.  'And  have  I  so  far 
conquered  my  own  feelings  as  to  be  capable  with  perfect  sincerity 
of  making  an  assertion  such  as  that?  Or,  if  it  be  sincere,  am  I 
sure  that  I  run  no  risk  of  disqualifying  myself  for  retaining  the 
same  liberty  of  mind  by  accepting  my  uncle's  invitation?  But 
it  is  not  possible,  surely,  that  my  peace  should  be  endangered  in 
the  society  of  one  who  treats  me  with  something  more,  and  colder, 
than  indifference  itself;  and  if  it  were,  my  part  is  already  taken, 
and  it  is  now  too  late  to  retract.  Poor  Kyrle,  he  wastes  his  elo- 

79 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

quence  in  exciting  my  commiseration  for  a  state  of  mind  with 
which  I  have  been  long  and  painfully  conversant.  If  he  knew 
how  powerful  a  sympathy  my  own  experience  had  awakened 
for  him,  he  need  not  use  an  effort  to  increase  it.' 

A  loud  shout  of  welcome,  sent  forth  in  honour  of  the  heiress  of 
Castle  Chute,  and  the  lady  patroness  of  the  day's  amusements, 
broke  in  upon  these  sombre  meditations,  and  called  the  attention 
of  that  lady,  and  of  her  downcast  escort,  to  a  novel  scene,  and 
new  performers. 

'Clamorem  immensum  tollit,  quo  pontus  et  omnes 
Intremuere  undae,  penitusque  exterrita  tellus 
Momonia. ' 

The  sounds  of  greeting  then  sank  into  a  babbling  murmur,  and 
at  last  into  a  hush  of  expectation,  similar  to  that  with  which  Pasta 
is  welcomed  at  the  Italian  Opera  when  she  comes  forward  to  stop 
the  mouths  of  the  unintelligible  chorus,  and  to  thrill  the  bright 
assembly  with  the  frantic  sorrows  of  Medea. 

The  spot  selected  for  the  occasion  was  the  shore  of  a  small  bay, 
which  was  composed  of  a  fine  hard  sand  that  afforded  a  very  fair 
and  level  course  for  the  horses.  At  the  farther  end  was  a  lofty 
pole,  on  the  top  of  which  was  suspended  by  the  stirrup,  a  new 
saddle,  the  destined  guerdon  of  the  conqueror.  A  red  handker- 
chief, stripped  from  the  neck  of  Dan  Hourigan,  the  house-car- 
penter, was  hoisted  overhead,  and  a  crowd  of  country  people, 
dressed,  notwithstanding  the  fineness  of  the  day,  in  their  heavy 
frieze  great-coats,  stood  round  the  winning-post,  each  faction 
being  resolved  to  see  justice  done  to  its  own  representative  in  the 
match.  A  number  of  tents,  composed  of  old  sheets,  bags,  and 
blankets,  with  a  pole  at  the  entrance,  and  a  sheaf  reed,  a  broken 
bottle  or  a  sod  of  turf  erected  for  a  sign,  were  discernible  among 
the  multitude  that  thronged  the  side  of  the  little  rising  ground 
before  mentioned.  High  above  the  rest  Mick  Normile's  sign-board 
waved  in  the  rising  wind.  Busy  was  the  look  of  that  lean  old  man, 
as  he  bustled  to  and  fro  among  his  pigs,  kegs,  mugs,  pots  and 
porringers.  A  motly  mass  of  felt  hats,  white  muslin  caps  and 
ribands,  scarlet  cloaks,  and  blue  riding  jocks,  filled  up  the  spaces 
between  the  tents,  and  moved  in  a  continual  series  of  involutions, 
whirls  and  eddies,  like  those  which  are  observable  on  the  surface 
of  a  fountain  newly  filled.  The  horses  were  to  start  from  the  end 
of  the  bay,  opposite  to  the  winning-post,  go  round  Mick  Normile's 

80 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

tent,  and  the  cowel  on  the  hillside,  and  returning  to  the  place 
from  whence  they  came,  run  straight  along  the  sand  for  the  saddle. 
This  was  to  be  the  victor's  prize, 

'Hie,  qui  forte  velint  rapido  contendere  cursu, 
Invitat  pretiis  animos,  et  premia  ponit.' 

The  solatia  victo  were  to  be  had  at  the  rate  of  fourpence  a  tum- 
bler, at  Mick  Normile's  tent. 

A  rejected  lover  can  hardly  be  supposed  to  have  any  predi- 
lection for  the  grotesque.  Kyrle  Daly,  however,  observing  that 
Miss  Chute  made  an  effort  to  appear  disembarrassed,  and  feel- 
ing, in  the  sincerity  of  his  affection,  a  sentiment  of  grief  for  the 
uneasiness  he  had  occasioned  her,  compelled  himself  to  assume 
the  appearance  of  his  usual  good-humour,  and  entered  with  some 
animation  into  the  spirit  of  the  scene.  Captain  Gibson,  who  now 
approached  them  on  foot,  could  not,  with  the  recollections  of  Ascot 
and  Doncaster  fresh  in  his  mind,  refrain  from  a  roar  of  laughter 
at  almost  every  object  he  beheld — at  the  condition  of  the  horses; 
the  serious  and  important  look  of  the  riders;  the  Teniers  appear- 
ance of  the  whole  course;  the  band,  consisting  simply  of  a  blind 
fiddler  with  a  piece  of  listing  about  his  waist  and  another  about 
his  old  hat;  the  self-importance  of  the  stewards,  Tim  Welsh  the 
baker,  and  Batt  Kennedy  the  poet  or  janius  of  the  village,  as  they 
went  in  a  jog-trot  round  the  course,  collecting  shilling  subscrip- 
tions to  the  saddle  from  all  who  appeared  on  horseback. 

'Well,  Anne,'  said  Mr.  Cregan,  riding  up  to  the  group,  'we  have 
lost  three  of  our  company.  Hepton  Connolly  is  gone  off  to  fight 
a  duel  with  some  fellow  from  the  mountains  that  called  him  a 
scoundrel,  and  taken  Creagh  with  him  for  a  second.  That's  the 
lad  that'll  see  them  properly  set.  Doctor  Leake  has  followed  for 
the  purpose  of  stopping  up  any  holes  they  may  happen  to  make 
in  one  another,  so  we  have  all  the  fun  to  ourselves.  If  the  doctor 
had  stayed,  we  should  have  had  so  many  accounts  of  the  sports 
of  Tailton  and  all  that.  He  is  a  very  learned  little  man,  the  doc- 
tor; I  don't  suppose  there's  so  long  a  head  in  the  county;  but  he 
talks  too  much.  Captain,  I  see  you  laugh  a  great  deal,  but  you 
mustn't  laugh  at  our  girls,  though;  there  are  some  pretty  bits 
o'  muslin  there,  I  can  tell  you.' 

'I  like  them  uncommonly,'  said  the  captain;  'their  dress,  in 
particular,  I  think  very  becoming.  The  muslin  cap,  with  a  riband 
tied  under  the  chin  and  a  pretty  knot  above,  is  a  very  simple  and 

81 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

rural  head-dress.  And  the  scarlet  cloak  and  hood,  which  seems 
to  be  a  favourite  article  of  costume,  gives  a  gay  and  flashy  air  to 
their  rustic  assemblies.  Look  at  that  girl,  now,  with  the  black 
eyes,  on  the  bank;  what  a  pretty,  modest  dress  that  is!  A  hand- 
kerchief pinned  across  the  bosom,  a  neat  figured  gown  and  check 
apron;  but  what  demon  whispered  her  to  case  her  little  feet  in 
black  worsted  stockings  and  brogues?' 

'They  are  better  than  the  clouted  shoes  of  the  continent,'  said 
Anne,  'and  durability  must  sometimes  be  preferred  to  appearance.' 

'Why,  that's  Syl  Carney,  Anne,'  exclaimed  Cregan. 

'It  is,  sir.  She  has  seen  her  beau  somewhere  on  the  course,  I 
will  venture  to  say.' 

A  roar  of  laughter  from  Captain  Gibson  here  attracted  their 
attention. 

'Look  at  that  comical  fellow  on  horseback,'  he  cried;  'did  you 
ever  see  such  a  pair  of  long  legs  with  so  small  a  head?  A  fire- 
tongs  would  sit  a  horse  as  well.  And  observe  the  jaunty  way  he 
carries  the  little  head,  and  his  nods  and  winks  at  the  girls.  That's 
an  excruciating  fellow!  And  the  arms,  the  short  arms,  how  the 
fellow  gathers  up  the  bridle  and  makes  the  lean  animal  hold  up 
his  head  and  jog  airily  forward.  Is  that  fellow  really  going  to  run 
for  the  stake?' 

Kyrle  Daly  turned  his  eyes  in  the  same  direction  and  suffered 
them  to  dilate  with  an  expression  of  astonishment,  when  he  be- 
held his  own  saucy  squire  seated  upon  the  hair-cutter's  mare, 
and  endeavouring  to  screen  himself  from  his  master's  observa- 
tion by  keeping  close  to  the  side  of  Batt  Kennedy,  the  janius;  while 
the  latter  recited  aloud  a  violent  satire  which  he  had  made  upon 
a  rival  versifier  in  the  neighbourhood.  In  fact,  Lowry  Looby, 
understanding  that  Syl  Carney  was  to  be  at  the  course,  and  wish- 
ing to  cut  a  figure  in  her  eyes,  had  coaxed  Foxy  Dunat  'out  of 
the  loand  of  his  mare  for  one  hate,'  while  that  indifferent  eques- 
trian refreshed  his  galled  person  with  a  'soft  sate'  on  the  green 
sod  in  Mick  Normile's  tent. 

Mr.  Cregan  here  left  the  party,  with  a  view  of  assuming  his 
place  as  judge  of  the  course  at  the  winning-post;  while  the  stag- 
geens  with  their  riders  moved  forward,  surrounded  by  a  dense 
and  noisy  crowd,  to  the  starting-post  near  the  elevation  that  was 
occupied  by  our  three  friends. 

'We  are  at  a  loss  here,'  said  Miss  Chute,  'for  a  list,  a  list  of 

82 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

this  day's  running  horses,  the  colour  of  the  rider,  and  the  rider's 
name!'  (Here  she  imitated,  with  some  liveliness,  the  accents  of 
the  boys  who  sell  those  bills  at  more  regular  fetes  of  the  kind.) 
'But  you,  Captain  Gibson,  seem  to  take  an  interest  in  the  proceed- 
ing, and  I  am  acquainted  not  only  with  the  characters  of  the  heroes 
who  hold  the  reins,  but  with  all  the  secret  machinery  of  intrigue 
which  is  expected  to  interfere  with  the  fair-dealing  of  the  day; 
I  will,  therefore,  if  you  please,  let  you  into  the  most  amusing  parts 
of  their  history  as  they  pass.' 

Captain  Gibson,  with  a  fresh  burst  of  laughter,  protested  that  he 
'  would  give  the  world  for  a  peep  into  the  social  policy  of  an  Irish 
village.' 

'  Well,  then,'  said  Anne,  assuming  a  mock-Ossianic  manner, '  the 
first  whom  you  see  advancing  on  that  poor  half-starved  black  mare, 
with  the  great  lump  on  her  knee,  and  the  hay-rope  for  a  saddle- 
girth,  is  Jerry  Dooley,  our  village  nailer,  famed  alike  for  his  dex- 
terity in  shaping  the  heads  of  his  brads  and  demolishing  those  of  his 
acquaintances.  Renowned  in  war  is  Jerry,  I  can  tell  you, — Gurt- 
enaspig  and  Derrygortnacloghy  re-echo  with  his  fame.  Next  to 
him,  on  that  spavined  grey  horse,  rides  John  O'Reilly,  our  black- 
smith, not  less  esteemed  in  arms,  or  rather  in  cudgels.  Not  silent, 
Captain  Gibson,  are  the  walks  of  Garryowen  on  the  deeds  of  John 
O'Reilly,  and  the  bogs  of  Ballinvoric  quake  when  his  name  is  men- 
tioned. A  strength  of  arm,  the  result  of  their  habitual  occupation, 
has  rendered  both  these  heroes  formidable  among  the  belligerent 
factions  of  the  village,  but  the  nailer  is  allowed  a  precedence.  He 
is  the  great  Achilles,  O'Reilly  the  Telemon  Ajax  of  the  neighbour- 
hood. And  to  follow  up  my  Homeric  parallels,  close  behind  him, 
on  that  long-backed,  ungroomed  creature,  with  the  unnameable 
colour,  rides  the  crafty  Ulysses  of  the  assemblage,  Dan  Hogan  the 
process-server.  You  may  read  something  of  his  vocation  in  the 
sidelong  glance  of  his  eye  and  in  the  paltry,  deprecating  air  of  his 
whole  demeanour.  He  starts  as  if  afraid  of  a  blow  whenever  any 
one  addresses  him.  As  he  is  going  to  be  married  to  Dooley's  sister, 
it  is  apprehended  by  the  O'Reillys  that  he  will  attempt  to  cross  the 
blacksmith's  mare,  but  the  smoky  Achilles,  who  gets  drunk  with 
him  every  Saturday  night,  has  a  full  reliance  on  his  friendship. 
Whether,  however,  Cupid  or  Bacchus  will  have  the  more  powerful 
influence  upon  the  process-server,  is  a  question  that  I  believe  yet 
remains  a  mystery  even  to  himself;  and  I  suspect  he  will  adopt  the 

83 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

neutral  part  of  doing  all  he  can  to  win  the  saddle  for  himself.  The 
two  who  ride  abreast  behind  Hogan  are  mountaineers,  of  whose 
motives  or  intentions  I  am  not  aware;  the  sixth  and  last  is  Lowry 
Looby,  a  retainer  of  my  friend  Mr.  Daly,  and  the  man  whose 
appearance  made  you  laugh  so  heartily  a  little  while  since.  He  is 
the  only  romantic  individual  of  the  match.  He  rides  for  love,  and 
it  is  to  the  chatty  disposition  of  the  lady  of  his  affections,  our  own 
housemaid,  that  I  am  indebted  for  all  this  information.' 

One  would  have  thought  the  English  officer  was  about  to  die  with 
laughter  several  times  during  the  course  of  this  speech.  He  leaned 
in  the  excess  of  his  mirth,  upon  the  shoulder  of  Kyrle  Daly,  who  in 
spite  of  all  his  depression  was  compelled  to  join  him,  and  placing  his 
hand  against  his  forehead — 


-laughed,  sans  intermission, 


An  hour  by  the  dial.' 

The  mere  force  of  sympathy  compelled  the  lady  and  gentleman 
to  lay  aside  for  the  moment  their  more  serious  reflections,  and  adapt 
their  spirits  to  the  scene  before  them.  It  seemed  curious  to  Kyrle 
Daly,  that  slightly  as  he  esteemed  this  new  military  acquaintance, 
he  felt  jealous  for  the  moment  of  the  influence  thus  exercised  by  the 
latter  on  the  temper  of  Anne  Chute,  and  wished  at  the  time  that  it 
were  in  his  power  to  laugh  as  heartily  as  Captain  Gibson.  But  a 
huge  diaphragm,  though  a  useful  possession  in  general  society,  is 
not  one  that  is  most  likely  to  win  the  affections  of  a  fine  girl.  In 
affairs  of  the  heart  your  mere  laugher  is  a  fool  to  your  thinker  and 
sentimentalist. 

Before  the  Captain  could  sufficiently  recover  himself  to  make 
his  acknowledgments  for  the  entertainment  which  Miss  Chute  had 
afforded  him,  a  cry  of '  Clear  the  coorse!  Clear  the  coorse!'  resounded 
along  the  sand,  and  the  two  stewards,  the  baker  and  poet,  came 
galloping  round  at  a  furious  rate,  laying  about  them  stoutly  with 
their  cord-whips,  while  their  horses  scattered  the  sand  and  pebbles 
in  all  directions  with  their  hoofs,  and  the  stragglers  were  seen  run- 
ning off  to  the  main  body  of  the  spectators  to  avoid  a  fate  similar  to 
that  sustained  by  the  victims  of  Juggernaut,  in  that  pious  procession 
to  which  his  Majesty's  non-emancipating  government  so  largely  and 
so  liberally  contribute.  '  Clear  the  coorse! '  shouted  the  baker,  with 
as  authoritative  an  accent  as  if  he  were  King  Pharaoh's  own  royal 

84 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

dough-kneader.  'Clear  the  coorse!'  sung  the  melodious  Batt 
Kennedy,  the  favourite  of  the  muses,  as  he  spurred  his  broken- 
winded  Pegasus  after  the  man  of  loaves;  and  of  course,  the 
course  was  cleared,  and  kept  clear,  less  perhaps  by  the  violence 
of  Tim  Welsh  than  the  amenity  of  Batt  Kennedy,  who,  though 
not  a  baker,  was  the  more  pithy  and  flowery  orator  of  the 
two. 


CHAPTER  XI 

HOW  KYRLE  DALY  HAS   THE  GOOD  LUCK  TO  SEE  A  STAGGEEN-RACE 

THE  signal  was  given — and  the  six  horsemen  started  in  good 
order,  and  with  more  zeal  and  eagerness  in  their  faces  than 
was  to  be  found  in  the  limbs  of  the  animals  which  they  bestrode. 
For  a  few  moments  the  strife  seemed  doubtful,  and  victory  hovered, 
with  an  indecisive  wing,  now  over  one  helmet,  and  now  over  another. 
The  crowd  of  spectators,  huddling  together  on  a  heap,  with  faces 
that  glowed  and  eyes  that  sparkled  with  intense  interest,  en- 
couraged the  riders  with  shouts  and  exclamations  of  hoarse  and 
vehement  applause.  'Success!  success,  Jerry!'  'It's  done;  a 
half-pint  wit  you,  Dan  Hogan  wins!'  'I  depend  my  life  upon 
John  O'Reilly.  'Give  her  a  loose,  Lowry!'  and  other  expressions 
of  a  similar  nature. 

But  ere  they  again  came  round  the  winning-post,  the  position  of 
the  horses  was  altered.  O'Reilly  rode  in  front,  lashing  his  horse  in 
the  flank  with  as  much  force  as  if  he  were  pounding  on  his  own 
anvil.  Dooley  the  nailer  came  close  behind,  drubbing  his  black 
mare's  lean  ribs  with  the  calves  of  his  legs  as  if  designing  to  beat  the 
poor  beast  out  of  the  last  remnant  of  her  wind.  The  others  followed, 
lashing  their  horses  and  one  another,  each  abusing  his  neighbour  in 
the  grossest  terms,  all  except  Lowry  Looby,  who  prudently  kept  out 
of  harm's  way,  keeping  a  loose  rein  in  his  hand,  and  giving  the  hair- 
cutter's  mare  the  advantage  of  what  jockeys  term  a  sob,  a  relief, 
indeed,  of  which  the  poor  creature  stood  in  the  utmost  need.  He 
was  thus  prepared  to  profit  by  the  accident  which  followed.  The 
blacksmith's  grey  horse  started  at  a  heap  of  sea-weed,  and  suffered 
the  nailer's  mare  to  come  down  like  a  thunderbolt  upon  his  haunches 

85 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

Both  steeds  fell,  and  the  process-server,  who  rode  on  their  heels, 
falling  foul  of  them  as  they  lay  kicking  on  the  sand,  was  compelled 
to  share  in  their  prostration.  This  accident  produced  among  the 
fallen  heroes  a  series  of  kicks  and  bruises  in  which  the  horses  were 
not  idle.  O'Reilly,  clenching  his  hand,  hit  the  nailer  a  straight- 
forward blow  between  the  eyes,  which  so  effectually  interfered  with 
the  exercise  of  these  organs,  that  he  returned  the  favour  with  a 
powerful  thrust  in  the  abdomen  of  his  own  prostrate  steed.  For 
this  good  office  he  was  rewarded  by  the  indignant  quadruped  with 
a  kick  over  the  right  ear  which  made  it  unnecessary  to  inflict  a 
second,  and  the  quarrel  remained  between  the  process-server  and 
blacksmith,  who  pummelled  one  another  as  if  they  were  pounding 
flax,  and  with  as  much  satisfaction  as  if  they  had  never  got  drunk 
together  in  their  lives.  They  were  at  length  separated,  and  borne 
from  the  ground  all  covered  with  blood  and  sand,  while  their  horses 
with  much  difficulty  were  set  upright  on  their  legs,  and  led  off  to  the 
neighbouring  slope. 

In  the  meantime,  our  party  observed  Lowry  Looby  returning 
from  the  winning-post  under  the  protection  of  Mr.  Cregan,  with  the 
saddle  torn  to  fritters  between  his  hands,  and  his  person  exhibiting 
tokens  of  severe  ill-usage.  He  had  contrived  to  outstrip  the  moun- 
taineers, and  obtained  the  prize;  but  the  adverse  factions,  irritated 
at  beholding  their  laurels  flourishing  on  a  stranger's  brow,  had 
collected  around  and  dragged  him  from  his  horse,  alleging  that  it 
was  an  unfair  heat,  and  that  there  should  be  a  second  trial.  Mr. 
Cregan,  however,  with  some  exertion,  succeeded  in  rescuing 
Lowry  from  their  hands;  but  not  until  every  man  in  the  crowd 
had  put  a  mark  upon  him  by  which  he  might  be  easily  distin- 
guished at  any  future  meeting. 

Tired  of  the  deafening  uproar  that  surrounded  him  and  longing 
for  retirement,  that  he  might  brood  at  leisure  over  his  disappoint- 
ment, Kyrle  Daly  now  left  the  course,  notwithstanding  the  invitation 
of  Anne  Chute,  that  he  would  return  and  dine  at  the  Castle.  His 
intention  was,  to  spend  the  night  at  the  cottage  on  one  of  his  father's 
dairy-farms,  which  lay  at  the  distance  of  a  few  miles  lower  on  the 
riverside;  and  where  one  neat  room  was  always  kept  in  order  for 
his  use,  whenever  he  joined  Hardress  Cregan  in  a  shooting  excursion 
towards  the  mouth  of  the  stream.  Hardress  had  promised  to  visit 
him  at  this  cottage,  a  few  weeks  before,  and  as  he  knew  that  his 
young  friend  must  have  come  to  an  anchor  in  waiting  for  the  tide, 

86 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

he  judged  it  not  unlikely  that  he  might  see  him  this  very  night.  He 
had  now  an  additional  reason  for  desiring  to  hold  conversation  with 
Hardress,  in  order  that  he  might  receive  the  consolations  of  his 
friendship,  under  his  own  disappointment;  and,  if  possible,  obtain 
some  knowledge  of  the  true  condition  of  his  mistress's  affections. 

Lowry  Looby,  once  more  reduced  to  his  legs,  followed  him  at  a 
distance  somewhat  more  considerable  than  that  recommended  by 
Dean  Swift  as  proper  to  be  observed  by  gentlemen's  gentlemen. 
He  lingered  only  to  restore  the  mare  to  Foxy  Dunat,  presenting  him 
at  the  same  time  with  the  mutilated  saddle,  and  obstinately  declining 
the  hair-cutter's  proposal  of '  trating  him  to  the  best  that  the  Cat  an' 
Bagpipes  could  afford.'  After  which  conversation  the  two  friends 
threw  their  arms  about  each  other's  neck,  kissed,  as  in  France,  and 
separated. 

The  night  had  fallen  before  Kyrle  alighted  at  the  cottage  door. 
Mrs.  Frawley,  the  dairy-woman,  had  been  provident  enough  to 
light  a  fire  in  the  little  yellow  room,  and  to  place  beside  it  the  arm- 
chair and  small  painted  table,  with  the  volume  of  Blackstone  which 
her  young  master  was  accustomed  to  look  into  in  the  evening.  The 
night,  she  observed, '  was  smart  enough  to  make  an  air  o'  the  fire  no 
unpleasant  thing;  and  even  if  it  were  not  cold,  a  fire  was  company 
when  one  would  be  alone  that  way.'  With  equal  foresight  she  had 
prepared  the  materials  for  a  tolerable  dinner,  such  as  a  hungry  man 
might  not  contemn  without  trial.  Whether  it  were  the  mere  effect 
of  custom,  or  an  indication  of  actual  and  unromantic  appetite,  the 
eye  of  our  desponding  lover  was  not  displeased,  on  entering  the  little 
parlour,  to  see  the  table  decorated  with  a  snow-white  damask  cloth, 
a  cooler  of  the  sweetest  butter,  a  small  cold  ham,  and  an  empty 
space  which  he  knew  to  be  destined  for  a  roast  duck  or  chickens. 
There  is  no  time  at  which  the  heart  is  more  disposed  to  estimate  in  a 
proper  light  the  comforts  of  home  and  a  quiet  fireside,  than  when  it 
has  experienced  some  severe  rejection  in  society,  and  it  was  with  the 
feeling  of  one  who,  after  much  and  harassing  annoyance,  encounters 
a  sudden  refuge,  that  our  drooping  traveller  flung  himself  into  the 
chair,  and  exclaimed  in  the  words  of  Oriana ; 

'Though  but  a  shadow,  but  a  sliding, 

Let  me  know  some  little  joy. 

We  that  suffer  long  annoy 

Are  contented  with  a  thought, 

Through  an  idle  fancy  wrought. 
Oh,  let  my  joys  have  some  abiding !* 

8? 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

While  Mrs.  Frawley  superintended  the  dressing  of  the 
fowl  in  the  kitchen,  much  wondering  at  the  forlorn  and  absent 
air  with  which  her  officious  attentions  were  received  by  the 
young  collegian,  that  meditative  gentleman  was  endeavouring 
to  concentrate  his  attention  on  the  pages  of  the  learned  work 
that  lay  before  him.  His  eyes  wandered  over  the  concise  and 
lucid  detail  of  the  reciprocal  rights  and  duties  of  baron  and 
feme,  but  what  purpose  could  this  answer,  except  to  remind 
him  that  he  could  never  claim  the  lovely  Anne  Chute  as  his 
feme,  nor  would  the  lovely  Anne  Chute  consent  to  acknowledge 
him  as  her  baron.  He  closed  the  volume,  and  laying  it  on 
the  little  chimney-piece,  resumed  his  mood  of  settled  medita- 
tion by  the  fire. 

The  silence  of  the  place  was  favourable  to  that  sort  of 
drowsy  musing  in  which  the  mind  delights  to  repose  its  ener- 
gies after  any  strong  and  passionate  excitement.  There  was 
no  effort  made  to  invite  or  pursue  a  particular  train  of  re- 
flection; but  those  thoughts  which  lay  nearest  to  the  heart, 
those  memories,  hopes,  fears,  and  wishes  with  which  they  were 
most  intimately  associated,  passed  in  long  and  still  procession 
before  his  mind.  It  was  a  dreary  and  funereal  train  to 
witness,  but  yet  the  lover  found  a  luxurious  indulgence  in 
its  contemplation.  He  remained  gazing  on  the  fire,  with  his 
hand  supporting  his  temple,  until  every  crackling  turf  and 
fagot  became  blended  in  his  thoughts  with  the  figures  which 
his  memory  called  up  from  the  past,  or  his  fancy  created  for 
the  future. 

While  he  leaned  thus  silent  in  his  chair,  he  overheard  in  the 
adjoining  kitchen  a  conversation,  which  for  the  moment  diverted 
his  attention  from  the  condition  of  his  own  fortunes. 

'Whereto  are  you  running  in  such  a  hurry,  Mary?'  said  Mrs. 
Frawley.  '  One  would  think  it  was  for  the  seed  o'  the  fire  you  come. 
Sit  down  again.' 

'  O  wisha,'  said  a  strange  voice, '  I'm  tired  from  sitting.  Is  it  to 
look  after  the  butter  Mr.  Kyrle  is  come  down  to  ye  ? ' 

'  Oyeh,  no.  He  doesn't  meddle  in  them  things  at  all.  If  he  did, 
we'd  have  a  bad  story  to  tell  him.  You'll  burn  that  duck,  Nelly,  if 
you  don't  mind  it.' 

'Why  so,  a  bad  story,  Mrs.  Frawley?' 

'  I'll  tell  you,  Mary.    I  don't  know  what  the  reason  of  it  is,  but  our 

88 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

butter  is  going  from  us  this  two  months  now.  I'd  almost  take  the 
vestment  *  of  it,  that  Mr.  Euright's  dairyman,  Bill  Noonan,  made 
a  pishog  f  and  took  away  our  butter.' 

'  Oyeh! ' 

'  What  else,  what  would  become  of  it?  Sure  Bill  himself  told  me 
they  had  double  their  complement  last  week,  at  a  time  when,  if  we 
were  to  break  our  hearts  churning  from  this  till  doomsday,  we  could 
get  nothing  but  the  buttermilk  in  the  latter  end.' 

'  Did  you  watch  your  cows  last  May-eve,  to  see  that  nobody  milked 
'em  from  you  ? ' 

'  I  did,  to  be  sure.  I  sat  up  until  twelve  o'clock,  to  have  the  first 
milk  myself:  for  Shaun  Lauther,  the  fairy-doctor,  told  me  that  if 
another  milked  'em  that  night,  she'd  have  their  butter  the  whole  year 
round.  And  what  good  was  it  for  me  ?  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  old 
Moll  Noonan  had  a  hand  in  it.' 

'  Nor  I  neither.  They  say  she's  a  witch.  Did  I  ever  tell  you 
what  Davy  Neal's  wife  did  to  her  of  a  time  ? ' 

( Not  as  I  know.' 

*  The  same  way  as  with  yourself,  the  butter,  no,  'tisn't  the  butter, 
but  the  milk  itself,  was  going  from  Katty  Neal,  although  her  little 
cow  was  a  kind  Kerry,  and  had  the  best  of  grazing.     Well,  she 
went,  as  you  done,  to  Shaun  Lauther,  the  knowledgable  man,  and 
put  a  half-a-crown  into  his  hand,  and  asked  his  advice.    Well !  "  Tell 
me,"  says  Shaun,"  were  you  at  Moll  Noonan's  yesterday  ?  "  "  I  was," 
says  Kate.     "And  did  you  see  a  hair  spancel  hanging  over  the 
chimney?"  says  he.     "I  did  see  that,  too,"  says  Kate.     "Well," 
says  Shaun,  "  'tis  out  of  that  spancel  that  Moll  do  be  milking  your 
cows  every  night,  by  her  own  chimney  corner,  and  you  breaking 
your  heart  at  a  dry  udder  the  same  time."    "And  what  am  I  to  do  ?  " 

*  Swear  on  the  priest's  vestment. 

t  A  mystic  rite,  by  which  one  person  is  enabled  to  make  a  super- 
natural transfer  of  his  neighbour's  butter  into  his  own  churns.  The 
failure  and  diminution  of  butter  at  different  times,  from  the  poverty 
of  the  cream,  appears  so  unaccountable,  that  the  country  people  can 
only  attribute  it  to  witchcraft;  and  those  dairy  superstitions  have 
prevailed  to  a  similar  degree  in  the  country  parts  of  England.  In 
The  Devil  is  an  Ass,  his  Satanic  Majesty  is  thus  made  to  jest  on  the 
petty  mischief  of  his  imp,  Pug,  who  seeks  a  month's  furlough  on  the 
earth: 

'You  have  some  plot  now, 

Upon  a  tunning  of  ale,  to  stale  the  yeast, 

Or  keep  the  churn  so  that  the  butter  come  not, 

Spite  of  the  housewife's  cord  and  her  hot  spit.1 

89 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

says  Kate.  "  I'll  tell  you,"  says  he.  "  Go  home  and  redden  this 
horseshoe  in  the  fire,  and  observe  when  you're  milking,  that  a  grey 
cat  will  sit  by  you  on  the  bawn.  Just  strike  her  with  the  red  shoe, 
and  your  business  will  be  done."  Well,  she  did  his  bidding.  She 
saw  the  grey  cat,  and  burnt  her  with  the  shoe,  till  she  flew  screech- 
ing over  the  hedge.' 
'  O,  murther,  hadn't  she  the  courage  ? ' 

'  She  had.  Well,  the  next  day  she  went  to  Moll  Noonan's,  and 
found  her  keeping  her  bed,  with  a  great  scald  she  said  she  got  from 
a  pot  of  boiling  water  she  had  down  for  scalding  the  keelers.  "Ayeh," 
thought  Kate,  "  I  know  what  ails  you  well,  my  old  lady."  But  she 
said  nothing,  and  I'll  engage  she  had  the  fine  can  o'  milk  from  her 
cows  next  morning. ' 
'  Well,  she  was  a  great  girl.' 

'A',  what  should  ail  her? '  said  Nelly,  the  servant  wench,  who  was 
employed  in  turning  the  duck.  '  I  remember  Jug  Flannigan,  the 
cooper's  wife,  above,  was  in  the  same  way,  losing  all  her  butter,  and 
she  got  it  again,  by  putten'  a  taste  o'  the  last  year's  butter  into  the 
churn,  before  churning,  along  with  the  crame,  and  into  every  keeler 
in  the  house.  Here,  Mrs.  Frawley,  will  you  have  an  eye  to  the  spit 
a  minute,  while  I  go  look  at  them  hens  in  the  coob  abroad  ?  Master 
Kyrle  might  like  a  fresh  egg  for  his  lay,  an'  I  hear  them  clockinV 

'  Do  then,  Nell,  a'ragal,  and,  as  you're  going,  turn  in  the  turkeys, 
for  the  wind  is  rising,  and  I'm  in  dread  it  will  be  a  bad  night.' 

A  loud  knocking  at  the  door  was  the  next  sound  that  invaded  the 
ear  of  Kyrle  Daly.  The  bolt  flew  back,  and  a  stranger  rushed  in, 
while  at  the  same  moment  a  gust  of  wind  and  rain  dashed  the  door 
with  violence  against  the  wall,  and  caused  a  cloud  of  smoke  and 
ashes  to  penetrate  even  to  the  room  in  which  he  sat. 

'  Shut  out  the  doore!  shut  out  the  doore! '  screamed  Mrs.  Frawley, 
*  the  duck  will  be  all  destroyed  from  the  ashes.  A,'  Lowry,  what 
kep'  you  till  now?' 

1  Oh,  let  me  alone,  woman,'  exclaimed  Lowry,  in  a  loud  and 
agitated  voice.     '  Where's  himself?    Where's  Masther  Kyrle? ' 
'  Sitting  in  the  parlour  within. — What's  the  matter,  eroo  ? ' 
Without  making  any  reply,  Lowry  Looby  presented  himself  at 
the  parlour-door,  and  waving  his  hand  with  much  force,  exclaimed, 
'  Come  out!  come  out,  Masther  Kyrle!    There's  the  Nora  Creina 
abroad  just  going  down,  an'  every  soul  aboard  of  her.     She  never 
will  fetch  the  shore!    O  vo!  vo!  'tis  frightful  to  see  the  swell  that's 

90 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

round  her.  The  Lord  in  His  mercy  sthretch  out  His  hand  upon  the 
wathers,  this  fearful  night!' 

Kyrle  started  up  in  alarm,  snatched  his  hat,  and  rushed  out  of  the 
room,  not  paying  any  attention  to  the  recommendation  of  Mrs. 
Frawley,  that  he  would  throw  the  frieze  riding-coat  over  his  shoulders 
before  he  went  out  in  the  rain.  Lowry  Looby,  with  many  ejacula- 
tions of  terror  and  of  compassion,  followed  his  master  to  the  shore, 
within  a  gun-shot  of  which  the  cottage  was  situated.  They  arrested 
their  steps  on  a  rocky  point,  which,  jutting  far  into  the  river,  com- 
manded a  wide  prospect  on  either  side.  It  was  covered  with  wet 
sea-weed  and  shell-fish,  and  afforded  a  slippery  footing  to  the  young 
collegian  and  his  squire.  A  small  fishing-boat  lay  at  anchor  on  the 
leeward  side  of  the  point,  and  her  crew,  consisting  of  a  swarthy  old 
man  and  a  youth,  were  standing  on  the  shore,  and  watching  the 
pleasure-boat  with  much  interest. 


CHAPTER  XII 

HOW  FORTUNE  BRINGS  TWO  OLD  FRIENDS  TOGETHER 

THE  situation  of  the  little  vessel  was  in  reality  terrific.  A 
fierce  westerly  wind,  encountering  the  receding  tide,  occa- 
sioned a  prodigious  swell  in  the  centre  of  the  channel;  and  even  near 
shore,  the  waves  lashed  themselves  with  so  much  fury  against  the 
rocky  headland  before  mentioned,  that  Kyrle  and  his  servant  were 
covered  with  spray  and  foam.  There  was  yet  sufficient  twilight  in 
the  sky  to  enable  them  to  discern  objects  on  the  river,  and  the  full 
autumnal  moon,  which  ever  and  anon  shot,  like  a  flying  ghost,  from 
one  dark  mass  of  vapour  to  another,  revealed  them  at  intervals  with 
a  distinctness  scarcely  inferior  to  that  of  day.  The  object  of  the 
pleasure-boat  seemed  to  be  that  of  reaching  the  anchorage  above 
alluded  to,  and  with  this  view  the  helmsman  held  her  head  as  close 
to  the  wind  as  a  reefed  mainsail  and  heavy  swell  would  allow  him. 
The  white  canvas,  as  the  boat  came  foaming  and  roaring  towards 
the  spectators,  appeared  half  drenched  in  brine  from  the  breaking 
of  the  sea  against  the  windward  bow.  The  appearance  of  the  vessel 
was  such  as  to  draw  frequent  ejaculations  of  compassion  from 
Lowry  and  the  boatmen,  and  to  make  Kyrle  Daly's  heart  sink  low 
with  fear  and  anxiety.  At  one  time,  she  was  seen  on  the  ridge  of  a 
broken  wave,  showing  her  keel  to  the  moonlight,  and  bending  her 

91 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

white  and  glistening  sails  over  the  dark  gulf  upon  her  lee.  At 
another,  the  liquid  mountain  rolled  away  and  left  her  buried  in  the 
trough,  while  her  vane  alone  was  visible  to  the  landsmen,  and  the 
surges  leaping  and  whitening  in  the  moonshine,  seemed  hurrying  to 
overwhelm  and  engulf  their  victim.  Again,  however,  suddenly 
emerging  into  the  light,  she  seemed  to  ride  the  waters  in  derision, 
and  left  the  angry  monsters  roaring  in  her  wake. 

'  She  never'll  do  it,  I'm  in  dread,'  said  Lowry,  bending  an  inquisi- 
tive glance  on  the  boatman.  The  latter  was  viewing  intently,  and 
with  a  grim  smile,  the  gallant  battle  made  by  the  little  vessel  against 
the  elements. 

'Tis  a  good  boy  that  has  the  rudder  in  his  hand,'  he  said;  '  an'  as 
for  their  lives,  'tis  the  same  Lord  that  is  on  the  water  as  on  the  land. 
When  their  hour  is  come,  on  sea  or  shore,  'tis  all  the  same  to  'em. 
I  wouldn't  wondther  if  he  done  it  yet.  Ah,  that  swell  put  him  off  of 
it.  He  must  make  another  tack.  'Tis  a  right  good  boy  that  houlds 
the  rudder.' 

'  What! '  exclaimed  Kyrle,  '  do  you  think  it  will  be  necessary  for 
them  to  put  out  into  the  tide  again  ? ' 

'  Indeed  I  don't  say  she'll  ever  do  without  it,'  said  the  old  boatman, 
still  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  Nora  Creina.  '  There  she  comes 
round.  She  spins  about  like  a  top,  God  bless  her! '  Then  putting 
his  huge  chapped  hands  at  either  side  of  his  mouth,  so  as  to  form  a 
kind  of  speaking-trumpet,  he  cried  out  in  a  voice  as  loud  and  hoarse 
as  that  of  the  surges  that  rolled  between  them,  'Ahoy!  ahoy!  Have 
an  oar  out  in  the  bow,  or  she'll  miss-stay  in  the  swell.' 

'  Thank  you,  thank  you,  it  is  done  already! '  shouted  the  helmsmen 
in  answer.  '  Kyrle,  my  boy,  how  are  you  ?  Kyrle,  have  a  good  fire 
for  us  when  we  go  in.  This  is  cold  work. ' 

'  Cold  work  ? '  repeated  Lowry  Looby.  '  Dear  knows,  it's  true  for 
you.  A'  then,  isn't  it  little  he  makes  of  it  after  all,  God  bless  him, 
an'  it  blowing  a  parfect  haricot 

Notwithstanding  the  vigour  and  confidence  which  spoke  in  the 
accents  of  the  hardy  helmsman,  Kyrle  Daly,  when  he  saw  the  vessel 
once  more  shoot  out  into  the  deep,  felt  as  if  he  had  been  listening  to 
the  last  farewell  of  his  friend.  He  could  not  return  his  gallant  greet- 
ing, and  remained  with  his  head  leaning  forward,  and  his  arm  out- 
stretched and  trembling,  while  his  eyes  followed  the  track  of  the 
pleasure-boat.  Close  behind  him  stood  Lowry — his  shoulder  raised 
against  the  wind,  and  his  hand  placed  over  that  ear  on  which  it  blew — 

92 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

clacking  his  tongue  against  his  palate  for  pity,  and  indulging  in 
many  sentiments  of  commiseration  for '  Masther  Hardress! '  and '  the 
family,'  not  forgetting '  Danny  the  Lord,'  and  his  sister,  '  Fighting 
Poll  of  the  Reeks.' 

We  shall  follow  the  vessel  in  her  brief  but  daring  course.  The 
young  helmsman  has  been  already  slightly  introduced  to  the  reader 
in  the  second  chapter  of  this  history,  but  the  change  which  circum- 
stances had  since  effected  in  his  appearance  renders  it  well  worthy 
of  our  pains  to  describe  his  person  and  bearing  with  more  accuracy 
and  distinctness.  His  figure  was  tall,  and  distinguished  by  that 
muscularity  and  firmness  of  set  which  characterizes  the  inhabitants 
of  the  southwest  of  Europe.  His  attitude,  as  he  kept  one  hand  on 
the  rudder,  and  his  eye  fixed  upon  the  foresail,  was  such  as  displayed 
his  form  to  extreme  advantage.  It  was  erect,  composed  and  manly. 
Every  movement  seemed  to  be  dictated  by  a  judgment  perfectly  at 
ease,  and  a  will  that,  far  from  being  depressed,  had  caught  a  degree 
of  fire  and  excitement  from  the  imminent  dangers  with  which  it  had 
to  struggle.  The  warm  and  heroic  flush  upon  his  cheek  could  not  be 
discovered  in  the  pale  and  unequal  light  that  shone  upon  him,  but  the 
settled  and  steady  lustre  of  his  large  dark  eye,  over  which  not  even 
the  slightest  contraction  of  the  arched  brow  could  be  discerned;  the 
perfect  calmness  of  his  manner,  and  the  half-smiling  expression  of  his 
mouth  (that  feature  which,  of  all  others,  is  most  traitorous  to  the 
dissembling  coward),  bespoke  a  mind  and  heart  that  were  pleased  to 
encounter  danger,  and  well  calculated  to  surmount  it.  It  was  such  a 
figure  as  would  have  at  once  awakened  associations  in  the  beholder's 
mind,  of  camps  and  action,  of  states  confounded  in  their  councils, 
and  nations  overrun  by  sudden  conquest.  His  features  were 
brightened  by  a  lofty  and  confident  enthusiasm,  such  as  the  imagina- 
tion might  ascribe  to  the  Royal  Adventurer  of  Sweden,  as  he  drew 
his  sword  on  his  beleaguerers  at  Belgrade.  His  forehead  was  ample 
and  intellectual  in  its  character;  his  hair '  coal-black '  and  curling; 
his  complexion  of  that  rich,  deep,  gipsy  yellow,  which,  showing  as  it 
did  the  healthy  bloom  beneath,  was  far  nobler  in  its  character  than 
the  feminine  white  and  red.  The  lower  portion  of  his  physiognomy 
was  finely  and  delicately  turned,  and  a  set  of  teeth  as  white  as  those 
of  a  young  beagle,  gave  infinite  vivacity  to  the  expression  of  his  lips. 
The  countenance  was  such  an  one  as  men  seldom  look  upon,  but 
when  once  beheld  can  never  be  forgotten. 

On  a  seat  at  the  weather-side  sat  a  young  girl,  her  slight  person 

93 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

wrapped  in  a  blue  cloak,  while  her  eyes  were  raised  to  the  cheerful 
face  of  the  helmsman,  as  if  from  him  she  derived  all  her  hope  and  her 
security.  The  wind  had  blown  back  the  hood  from  her  shoulders, 
and  the  head  and  countenance  which  thus  '  unmasked  their  beauty 
to  the  moon  '  were  turned  with  a  sylph-like  grace  and  lightness.  The 
mass  of  curly  hair  which  was  blown  over  her  left  temple  seemed  of 
a  pale  gold,  that  harmonized  well  with  the  excelling  fairness  and 
purity  of  her  complexion;  and  the  expression  of  her  countenance  was 
tender,  affectionate  and  confiding. 

In  the  bow  sat  a  being  who  did  not  share  the  beauty  of  his  com- 
panions. He  bore  a  prodigious  hunch  upon  his  shoulders,  which, 
however,  did  not  prevent  his  using  his  limbs  with  agility  and  even 
strength,  as  he  tended  the  foresail,  and  bustled  from  side  to  side  with 
an  air  of  the  utmost  coolness  and  indifference.  His  features  were 
not  disagreeable,  and  were  distinguished  by  that  look  of  pert  shrewd- 
ness which  marks  the  low  inhabitant  of  a  city,  and  vents  itself  in 
vulgar  cant,  and  in  ridicule  of  the  honest  and  wondering  ignorance 
of  rustic  simplicity. 

Such  were  the  individuals  whom  the  spirit  of  the  tempest  appeared 
at  this  moment  to  hold  environed  by  his  hundred  perils;  and  such 
was  the  manner  in  which  they  prepared  to  encounter  their  destiny. 

'  Mind  your  hand,  Mr.  Hardress,'  said  the  boatman,  in  a  careless 
tone,  '  we  are  in  the  tide.' 

It  required  the  hand  of  an  experienced  helmsman  to  bring  the 
little  vessel  through  the  danger  which  he  thus  announced.  An 
immense,  overtopping  billow,  capped  in  foam,  came  thundering 
downward  like  an  avalanche  upon  her  side.  In  spite  of  the  pre- 
cautions of  Hardress,  and  the  practised  skill  with  which  he  timed  the 
motion  of  the  wave,  as  one  would  take  a  ball  upon  the  bound,  or  a 
hunter  on  the  rise,  the  bowsprit  dipped  and  cracked  like  a  withered 
sapling,  a  whole  ton  of  water  was  flung  over  the  stern,  drenching  the 
crew  as  completely  as  if  they  had  been  drawn  through  the  river. 
The  boat  seemed  to  stagger  and  lose  her  way  like  a  stricken  hart, 
and  lay  for  a  moment  weltering  in  the  gloomy  chasm  in  which  the 
wasted  wave  had  left  her.  A  low  and  smothered  scream  was  break- 
ing from  the  female,  when  her  eye  again  met  that  of  Hardress  Cregan 
and  her  lip,  though  pale  and  quivering,  was  silent. 

'  That  was  right  well  done,  sir,'  said  Danny  Mann,  as  the  boat  once 
more  cleft  the  breakers  on  her  landward  course.  'A  minute  sooner, 
or  a  minute  later,  up  with  the  hand,  would  put  it  all  into  her.' 

94 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'A  second  would  have  done  it,'  said  Hardress, '  but  all  is  well  now. 
A  charming  night  this  would  be,'  he  continued,  smiling  on  the  girl, 
'  for  beaver  and  feathers.' 

This  jest  produced  a  short  hysteric  laugh  in  answer,  which  was 
rather  startling  than  agreeable  to  the  person  who  addressed  her.  In 
a  few  minutes  after,  and  without  any  more  considerable  disaster, 
the  vessel  dropped  her  peak,  and  ran  alongside  the  rocks  on  which 
Kyrle  Daly  was  expecting  them. 

'  Remain  in  the  boat,'  said  Hardress,  addressing  the  girl,  while  he 
fastened  the  hood  over  her  head;  '  I  see  that  talkative  fellow,  Looby, 
above  on  the  rocks.  I  will  procure  you  an  unoccupied  room,  if 
possible,  in  the  cottage,  as  a  neighbour  and  relative  of  Danny 
Mann.  Endeavour  to  conceal  your  countenance,  and  speak  as 
little  as  possible.  We  are  ruined,  if  I  should  be  seen  paying 
you  any  attention.' 

'And  I  am  not  to  see  you  to-night  again?'  said  the  girl, in  a 
broken  and  affectionate  accent. 

'  My  own  love,  I  would  not  go  to  rest  without  taking  leave  of  you 
for  all  the  world.  Be  satisfied/  he  added,  pressing  her  hand  tenderly 
and  patting  her  upturned  cheek.  '  You  are  a  noble  girl.  Go,  pray 
— pray  and  return  thanks  for  your  husband's  life  as  he  shall  do  for 
yours.  I  thought  we  should  have  supped  in  heaven.  Dan! '  he 
continued  aloud,  calling  to  the  boatman, '  take  care  of  your  sister.' 

'  His  sisther! '  echoed  Lowry  Looby  on  the  rocks.  '  Oh,  murther, 
is  Fighting  Poll  of  the  Reeks  aboord,  too  ?  Why  then,  he  needn't 
bid  Danny  to  take  care  of  her,  for  she  is  well  able  to  do  that  job  for 
herself.' 

Hardress  leaped  out  upon  the  shore,  and  was  received  by  Kyrle 
Daly  with  a  warmth  and  delight  proportioned  to  the  anxiety  which 
he  had  previously  experienced. 

'  My  dear  fellow,  I  thought  I  should  have  never  seen  you  on 
your  feet  again.  A  thousand  and  a  hundred  thousand  welcomes! 
Lowry,  run  to  the  house,  and  get  dinner  hastened.  Stay!  Har- 
dress, have  you  anything  on  board  ? ' 

'  Only  a  small  trunk  and  my  gun.  You  would  forever  oblige  me, 
Kyrle,  by  procuring  a  comfortable  lodging,  if  you  have  no  room  to 
spare,  for  this  poor  fellow  of  mine  and  his  sister.  He  is  sickly,  and 
you  know  he  is  my  .foster-brother.' 

'  He  shall  be  taken  care  of — I  have  a  room.  Come  along — you 
are  dripping  wet.  Lowry,  take  up  Mr.  Cregan's  trunk  and  gun  to 

95 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

the  cottage.  Come  along,  Hardress,  you  will  catch  your  death  of 
cold.  Pooh!  are  you  afraid  Fighting  Poll  will  break  her  tender 
limbs  that  you  look  back  and  watch  her  so  closely  ? ' 

'  No — no,  my  dear  Daly — but  I  am  afraid  that  fellow — Booby — 
Looby  (what's  his  stupid  name?) — will  break  my  trunk;  he  is 
watching  the  woman  and  peering  about  her,  instead  of  minding  what 
he  is  doing.  But  come  along! — Well,  Kyrle,  how  are  you ?  I  saw 
you  all  in  the  window  to-day  when  I  was  sailing  by.' 

'  Yes — you  edified  my  mother  with  that  little  feat  you  performed 
at  the  expense  of  the  fishermen.' 

'  Ah,  no — was  she  looking  at  that,  though  ?  I  shall  not  be  able  to 
show  my  face  to  her  this  month  to  come.  Hallo,  you  sir,  Booby! 
Looby,  come  along!  Do  you  remain  long  in  the  West,  Kyrle? ' 

'As  long  as  you  will  take  a  bed  in  the  cottage  with  me.  But  we 
will  talk  of  this  when  you  have  changed  your  dress  and  dined.  You 
came  on  the  very  point  of  time.  Rem  acu  tetigisti,  as  your  old  college 
tutor  Doyle  would  say.  Mrs.  Frawley  was  just  preparing  to  dish  me 
a  roast  duck.  I  bless  the  wind,  all  boisterous  as  it  was,  that  blew 
you  on  these  shores,  for  I  thought  I  would  have  spent  a  lonesome 
evening,  with  the  recollections  of  merry  old  times,  like  so  many  evil 
familiars,  to  dine,  and  sup,  and  sleep  with  me.  But  now  that  we 
are  met  again,  farewell  the  past!  The  present  and  the  future  shall 
furnish  our  entertainment,  after  we  have  done  with  the  roast  duck.' 

*  The  fumes  of  which  salute  my  sense  at  this  moment  with  no  dis- 
agreeable odour,'  said  Hardress,  following  his  friend  into  the  little 
hall  of  the  cottage.  '  Mrs.  Frawley,  as  fat  and  fair,  and  rosy  as  ever! 
Well,  Mrs.  Frawley,  how  do  you  and  the  cows  get  on?  Has  any 
villainous  imp  been  making  pishogs  over  your  keelers?  Does  the 
cream  mount?  Does  the  butter  break?  Have  you  got  the  devil 
well  out  of  your  churn  ? ' 

'  Oh,  fie,  Masthe.:  Cregan,  to  go  spake  of  such  a  thing  at  all!  Oh, 
vo,  a  vich-o,  you're  drown'ded  wet,  an'  that's  what  you  are.  Nelly, 
eroo,  bring  hether  the  candle.  Oh,  sir,  you  never  will  get  over  it.' 

'Never  mind,  Mrs.  Frawley.  I'll  be  stout  enough  to  dance  at 
your  wedding  yet.' 

'  My  wedding,  avourneen! '  returned  the  buxom  dairy-woman,  in 
a  gentle  scream  of  surprise,  not  unqualified,  however,  by  a  gracious 
smile.  '  Oyeh,  if  you  never  fut  a  moneen  till  then! — Make  haste 
hether  with  the  candle,  Nelly,  eroo;  what  are  you  doing? ' 

Nelly,  not  altogether  point  device  in  her  attire,  at  length  appeared 

96 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

with  a  light  to  conduct  the  gentlemen  to  their  chamber,  while  Mrs. 
Frawley  returned  to  the  kitchen.  This  accident  of  the  stranger's 
arrival  was  of  fatal  consequence  to  three  individuals  in  the  cottage; 
namely,  two  fat  chickens  and  a  turkey  pout,  upon  whom  sentence 
of  death  was  immediately  pronounced  and  executed,  without  more 
form  of  law  than  might  go  to  the  hanging  of  a  Croppy.  Mrs.  Fraw- 
ley, meantime,  fulfilled  the  office  of  sheriff  on  the  occasion,  ejaculat- 
ing, out  of  a  smiling  reverie,  while  she  gazed  listlessly  on  the  blood  of 
the  innocent  victims, '  Why  then,  I  declare  that  Misther  Hardress  is 
a  mighty  pleasant  gentleman.' 

In  the  meantime,  Lowry  Looby  was  executing  the  commission  he 
had  received  with  regard  to  Mr.  Cregan's  trunk.  Lowry,  who  was 
just  as  fond  of  obtaining,  as  of  communicating  strange  intelligence, 
had  his  own  good  reasons  for  standing  in  awe  of  the  far-famed 
Fighting  Poll  of  the  Reeks,  who  was  renowned  in  all  the  western 
fairs,  as  a  fearless,  whiskey-drinking  virago,  over  six  feet  in  her 
stocking  vamps,  and  standing  no  more  in  awe  of  the  gallows  than  she 
might  of  her  mother's  arms.  It  may  at  once  be  seen  that  a  character 
of  this  description  was  the  very  last  that  could  have  been  personated 
with  any  success  by  the  lovely  young  creature  who  accompanied 
Hardress,  and  indeed  her  only  chance  of  escaping  detection  con- 
sisted in  the  unobtrusiveness  of  the  attempt  she  made,  and  the 
care  she  used  in  concealing  her  features.  The  first  circumstance 
that  excited  the  astonishment  of  Lowry,  as  he  stood  bowing  with  his 
hat  off  upon  the  rocks,  while  Danny  the  Lord  assisted  her  to  land, 
was  the  comparative  diminutiveness  of  her  stature,  and  the  apparent 
slightness  of  her  form. 

'  Your  sarvent,  Mrs.  Naughten,'  he  said,  in  a  most  insinuating 
accent.  'I  hope  I  see  you  well  in  your  health,  ma'am.  You 
wouldn't  remember  a  boy  of  the  Loobys  at  all,  you  met  of  a  time  at 
Nelly  Hewsan's  wake,  westwards.  (Heaven  rest  her  soul  this  night!) 
That  was  the  place  where  the  great  giving-out  Was,  surely.' 

To  this  gentle  remembrance  of  old  merry  times,  the  female  in  the 
blue  cloak  only  answered  by  a  slight,  short  curtsey,  while  she  drew 
the  hood  closer  about  her  face,  and  began,  though  with  a  feeble  and 
tottering  step,  to  ascend  the  rocks. 

'  Bread,  an' — beef,  an' — tay,  an' — whiskey,  an' — turkeys,  an'  — 
cakes — an'  everything  that  the  heart  could  like,'  the  officious  Lowry 
continued,  following  the  pseudo- Amazon  among  the  stones  and  sea- 
weed and  marvelling  not  a  little  at  her  unaccustomed  taciturnity. 

97 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'The  Hewsans  could  well  afford  it,  they  were  strong,  snug  farmers, 
relations  o'  your  own,  I'm  thinking,  ma'am.  Oh,  vo!  sure  I  forgot 
the  trunk,  and  there's  Mr.  Hardress  calling  to  me.  Larry  Kett,' 
he  continued,  addressing  the  old  boatman  before  mentioned,  'will 
you  show  Mrs.  Naughten  the  way  to  the  house  while  I'm  getting  the 
thrunk  out  o'  the  boat;  an'  if  you  want  a  fire  o'  turf  or  a  gwal  o'  pia- 
tees,  Mrs.  Frawley  will  let  you  have  'em  an'  welcome.' 

The  old  boatman  willingly  came  into  terms  so  easy  and  advanta- 
geous; and  the  fair  counterfeit  hurried  on,  well  pleased  at  the 
exchange  of  companions.  Lowry  in  the  meantime  returned  to  the 
boat,  and  stole  into  conversation  with  Danny  the  Lord,  whom,  in 
fear  of  his  sneering  satirical  temper,  he  always  treated  with  nearly 
as  much  respect  as  if  his  title  were  not  so  purely  a  thing  of  courtesy. 
Danny  Mann,  on  the  other  hand,  received  his  attentions  with  but 
little  complaisance;  for  he  looked  on  Lowry  as  a  foolish,  trouble- 
some fellow,  whose  property  in  words  (like  the  estate  of  many  a 
young  absentee)  far  overbalanced  his  discretion  and  ability  in  their 
employment.  He  had  often  told  Looby  in  confidence, '  that  it  would 
be  well  for  him  he  had  a  bigger  head  an'  a  smaller  mouth,'  alluding 
to  that  peculiar  conformation  of  Lowry's  upper  man  with  which  the 
reader  has  been  already  made  acquainted.  The  country  people 
(who  are  never  at  a  loss  for  a  simile),  when  they  saw  this  long-legged 
fellow  following  the  sharp- faced  little  hunchback  from  place  to 
place,  used  to  lean  on  their  spades,  and  call  the  attention  of  their 
companions  to '  the  wran  an'  the  cuckoo,  goen'  the  road'.' 

The  'cuckoo*  now  found  the  'wran'  employed  in  coiling  up  a  wet 
cable  on  the  forecastle,  while  he  sang  in  a  voice  that  more  nearly 
resembled  the  grunting  of  a  pig  at  the  approach  of  rain,  than  the 
melody  of  the  sweet  songstress  of  the  hedges  above  named: — 

'An'  of  all  de  meat  dat  ever  was  hung, 

A  cheek  o'  pork  is  my  fancy, 
lTis  sweet  and  toothsome  when  'tis  young, 

Fait,  dat's  no  lie,  says  Nancy. 
'Twill  boil  in  less  dan  half  an  hour, 

Den  wit  your  nail  you  may  try  it; 
'Twill  taste  like  any  cauliflower, 
'Tis  better  do  dat  dan  to  fry  it. 

Sing  re-rig-i-dig-i-dum-derom-dum.' 

'How  does  the  world  use  Misther  Mann  this  evening? '  was  the 
form  of  Lowry's  first  greeting,  as  he  bent  over  the  gunwale  of  the 
stern,  and  laid  his  huge  paws  on  the  small  trunk. 

'As  you  see  me,  Lowry,'  was  the  reply. 


'A  smart  evening  ye  had  of  it.' 

'Purty  fair  for  de  matter  o'  dat.' 

'Dear  knows,  it's  a  wondther  ye  worn't  drown 'ded.  Twas 
blowen'  a  harico.  An'  you  singen'  now  as  if  you  wor  comen'  from 
a  jig-house,  or  a  wake,  or  a  weddin'.  A'  then,  tell  me  now,  Misther 
Mann,  wasn't  it  your  thought  when  you  wor  abroad,  that  time, 
how  long  it  was  since  you  were  with  the  priest  before  ?  ' 

'I  tought  o'  dat  first,  Lowry,  an'  I  tried  to  say  a  prayer,  but 
it  was  so  long  from  me  since  I  did  de  like  before,  dat  I  might  as 
well  try  to  talk  Latin,  or  any  oder  book-larning.  But  sure  if  I 
tought  o'  myself  rightly,  dere  wasn't  de  laste  fear  of  us,  for  I  had 
a  book  o'  Saint  Margaret's  confessions  in  me  buzzom,  an'  as  long 
as  I'd  have  dat,  I  knew  dat  if  de  boat  was  to  go  down  under  me 
itself,  she'd  come  up  again.' 

'Erra,  no!' 

'Iss,  dear  knows.' 

'I  wisht  I  had  one  of  'em,'  said  Lowry,  'I  do  be  often  goen'  in 
boats  across  to  Cratloe,  an'  them  places.' 

'You'd  have  no  business  of  it,  Lowry.  Dem  dat's  born  for 
one  death  has  no  reason  to  be  afeerd  of  anoder.' 

'Gondoutha!  You're  welcome  to  your  joke  this  evening.  Well, 
if  I  was  to  put  my  eyes  upon  sticks,  Misther  Mann,  I  never  would 
know  your  sisther  again.' 

'She  grew  a  dale,  I  b'lieve.' 

'Grew? — If  she  did,  it's  like  the  cow's  tail,  downwards.  Why 
she  isn't,  to  say,  taller  than  myself,  now,  in  place  of  being  the 
head  an'  two  shoulders  above  me.  An'  she  isn't  at  all  the  rattlen' 
girl  she  was  of  ould.  She  didn't  spake  a  word.' 

An'  dat's  a  failing  dat's  new  to  both  of  ye,'  said  his  lordship; 
'but  Poll  made  a  vow  again'  talken'  of  a  Tursday,  bekeys  it  was 
of  a  Tursday  her  first  child  died,  an'  dey  said  he  was  hoist  away 
be  de  good  people,  while  Poll  was  gossiping  wid  Ned  Hayes,  over 
a  glass  at  de  public.' 

'An'  that's  her  raison!' 

'Dat's  her  raison.' 

'An'  in  regard  o'  the  drink?' 

'Oh,  she's  greatly  altered  dat  way,  too,  dough  'twas  greatly 
again'  natur'.  A  lime-burner's  bag  was  notten'  to  her  for  soaken 
formerly,  but  now  she'd  take  no  more  dan  a  wet  spunge.' 

'That's  great,  surely.    An'  about  the  cursen'  an'  swearen'?  ' 

99 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'Cursen'?  You'd  no  more  find  a  curse  after  her,  dan  you  would 
after  de  clargy.  An'  'tisn't  dat  itself,  but  you  wouldn't  get  a 
crooked  word  outside  her  lips  from  year's  end  to  year's  end.' 

'Why  then,  it  was  long  from  her  to  be  so  mealy-mouthed  when 
I  knew  her.  An'  does  she  lift  a  hand  at  the  fair  at  all  now  ?  Oyeh, 
what  a  terrible  'oman  she  was,  comen'  again'  a  man  with  her 
stocken'  off,  an'  a  stone  in  the  foot  of  it!' 

'  She  was.     Well,  she  wouldn't  raise  her  hand  to  a  chicken,  now.' 

'That  flogs  cock-fighting.' 

'Only,  I'll  tell  you  in  one  case.  She's  apt  to  be  contrary  to 
any  one  dat  would  be  comen'  discoorsen'  her  of  a  Tursday  at  all, 
or  peepen'  or  spyen'  about  her,  she's  so  vexed  in  herself  not  to  be 
able  to  make  'em  an  answer.  It  used  to  be  a  word  an'  a  blow  wit 
her,  but  now  as  she  can't  have  de  word,  'tis  de  blow  comes  mostly 
first,  and  she  didn't  make  e'er  a  vow  again'  dat.' 

'Shasthone!'  exclaimed  Lowry,  who  laid  up  this  hint  for  his 
own  edification.  'Great  changes,  surely.  Well,  Misther  Mann, 
an'  will  you  tell  me  now  if  you  plase,  is  your  master  goen'  west- 
wards in  the  boat  to-morrow  ? ' 

'I  don't  know,  an'  not  maken'  you  a  short  answer,  Lowry,  I 
don't  care.  And  a  word  more  on  de  back  o'  dat  again,  aldough 
I  have  a  sort  of  a  rattlen'  regard  for  you,  still  an'  all,  I'd  rader  be 
taking  a  noggin  o'  whiskey,  to  warm  de  heart  in  me  dis  cold  night, 
dan  listening  to  your  talken'  dere.  Dat  I  may  be  happy,  but  I 
would,  an'  dat's  as  good  as  if  I  was  after  taking  all  de  books  in 
Ireland  of  it.' 

This  hint  put  an  end  to  the  conversation  for  the  present,  and 
Danny  the  Lord  (who  exercised  over  Lowry  Looby  an  influence 
somewhat  similar  to  that  which  tied  Master  Matthew  to  the  heels 
of  Bobadil)  adjourned  with  that  loquacious  person  to  the  comforts 
of  Mrs.  Frawley's  fireside. 


CHAPTER 

HOW  THE  TWO  FRIENDS  HOLD  A  LONGER  CONVERSATION 
TOGETHER  THEN  THE  READER  MAY  PROBABLY  APPROVE 

THE  female  in  the  blue  cloak  withstood  all  the  recommenda- 
tions and  entreaties  of  the  good-natured  dairy-woman  that 
she  would  '  step  in  and  take  an  air  of  the  kitchen  fire.'  She  pleaded 

100 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

extreme  fatigue,  and  requested  that  she  might  be  permitted  to 
occupy  at  once  the  chamber  in  which  she  was  to  pass  the  night. 
Finding  her  resolute,  Mrs.  Frawley  insisted  on  having  a  cheerful 
fire  lighted  up  in  the  little  room  outside  her  own  dormitory,  which 
was  appropriated  to  the  fair  stranger's  use.  It  was  impossible 
to  maintain  her  close  disguise  in  the  presence  of  this  officious 
and  hospitable  woman,  whose  regard  for  her  guest  was  in  no  de- 
gree diminished  by  a  view  of  her  person  and  dress.  Her  hair 
was  wringing  wet,  but  her  cloak  had  in  a  great  measure  preserved 
the  remainder  of  her  attire,  which  was  just  a  shade  too  elegant 
for  a  mere  paysanne,  and  too  modest  for  a  person  claiming  the 
rank  of  a  gentlewoman.  The  material,  also,  which  was  a  pretty 
flowered  cotton,  'a,  dawny  pattern,'  as  Mrs.  Frawley  declared, 
proclaimed  a  pocket  altogether  at  ease,  and  led  the  dairy-woman 
to  the  conclusion  that '  the  Naughtens  were  decent,  credible  people, 
that  knew  how  to  industher,  and  turn  and  stretch  a  penny,  as  far 
as  more  would  a  shilling.' 

Having  supplied  the  counterfeit  Poll  with  everything  necessary 
for  her  immediate  uses,  Mrs.  Frawley  left  her  to  make  what  changes 
she  pleased  on  her  dress,  and  went  to  look  after  the  young  gentle- 
men's dinner,  as  well  as  to  prepare  some  refreshment  for  the  weary 
Mrs.  Naughten  herself. 

Scarcely  had  Mrs.  Frawley  departed,  when  a  soft  tapping  at 
the  room-door  announced  the  approach  of  another  visitor.  The 
lovely  inconnue,  who  was  employed  at  the  moment  arranging  and 
drying  her  hair,  felt  her  heart  beat  somewhat  quickly  and  strongly 
at  the  sound.  She  threw  back  from  her  temples  the  wavy  mass 
of  gold  that  hung  around  them,  and  ran  to  the  door  with  lips  apart, 
and  a  flushed  and  eager  cheek.  'It  is  he!'  she  exclaimed  to  her 
own  breast  as  she  undid  the  bolt. 

It  was  not  he.  The  weather-worn,  freckled  face  of  the  little 
hunchback  was  the  first  object  that  met  her  eyes.  Between  his 
hands  he  held  a  small  trunk,  the  lid  of  which  was  studded  with 
brass  nails,  forming  the  letters  E.  O'C. 

'By  a  dale  to  do,  miss,  I  laid  hoult  o'  dis,'  said  Danny;  'Lowry 
said  de  letters  didn't  stand  for  Mr.  Hardress  at  all,  only  one  of  'em.' 

'Thank  you,  Danny.     Where  is  your  master?' 

'  Aten  his  dinner  in  de  parlour  wit  Mr.  Daly  before  a  tunderen* 
big  fire.' 

'Was  Lowry  speaking  to  you?' 

101 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'Did  anybody  ever  see  him  oderwise?    I'll  be  bail  he  was  so.* 

'But  does  he  know — ' 

'I  didn't  hear  him  say  a  word  about  it,'  replied  the  little  lord, 
'an'  I  tink,  if  he  knew,  he'd  telL' 

'Well,  Danny,  will  you  find  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  your 
master  without  being  observed,  and  tell  him  that  I  wish  to  see 
him  very  much  indeed.  I  am  very  uneasy  and  he  has  not  told 
me  how  long  we  are  to  stay  here,  or  where  we  are  to  go  next,  or 
anything.  I  feel  quite  lonesome,  Danny,  for  it  is  the  first  evening 
I  have  ever  spent  alone  in  my  life,  I  think.'  Here  the  poor  young 
creature's  lips  quivered  a  little,  and  the  water  started  into  her  eye. 

'Never  fear,  ma  gra  hu!  ma  grein  chree  hu!'  said  Danny  in  a 
soothing  tone,  'I'll  speak  a  word  in  his  ear,  and  he'll  come  to  you. 
Dat  I  may  never  die  in  a  frost  if  I  wouldn't  go  from  dis  to  Dublin 
to  sarve  you,  next  to  Mr.  Hardress  himself.* 

He  was  as  good  as  his  word;  and  took  an  opportunity,  while 
Hardress  was  giving  him  some  directions  about  the  boat,  to  men- 
tion the  request  of  their  gentle  companion  in  the  storm.  The 
young  gentleman  inquired  the  situation  of  the  room,  and  bade 
his  servant  say,  that  he  would  not  fafl  to  visit  her,  if  only  for  a  few 
minutes,  before  he  retired  to  rest  It  was  necessary  that  the  ut- 
most caution  should  be  observed  to  avoid  awakening  suspicion. 

Kyrle  Daly,  in  the  meantime,  was  employed  in  manufacturing 
a  capacious  bowl  of  whiskey-punch  by  the  parlour  fireside.  In- 
stead of  the  humble  but  capacious  tumbler,  or  still  more  modern 
small  stone-china  jug,  over  which  you,  good  Irish  reader,  are  prob- 
ably accustomed  to  solace  your  honest  heart  in  a  winter's  even- 
ing, two  glasses,  more  than  a  foot  in  height,  were  displayed  upon 
the  board,  and  seemed  to  meet  the  lips  without  the  necessity  of 
any  assistance  from  the  hand. 

By  one  of  those  inconsistencies  in  our  nature,  on  which  it  is 
idle  to  speculate,  Kyrle  Daly  found  a  difficulty  in  getting  into 
conversation  with  his  friend,  upon  the  very  subject,  on  which, 
a  few  minutes  before,  he  had  longed  for  his  advice  and  assistance. 
Hardress  appeared  to  be  in  high,  noisy,  and  even  exulting  spirits, 
the  sound  of  which  ran  jarringly  and  harsh  upon  the  ear  of  the 
disappointed  lover.  The  uproar  of  his  happy  heart  offended 
the  languor  of  his  young  companion's  mind,  as  the  bustle  of  the 
city  noon  sounds  strange  and  unfamiliar  on  a  sick  man's  hearing. 

Neither,  perhaps,  is  there  any  subject  to  which  young  men  of 

102 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

equal  pretensions  have  a  greater  distaste  than  that  of  love-con- 
fidences one  with  another.  If  the  tale  be  of  a  past  and  unhappy 
attachment,  it  is  wearisome  and  annoying;  and  if  it  relate  to  a 
present  and  successful  passion,  a  sentiment  of  jealousy  is  apt  to 
invade  the  heart  of  the  listener,  while  he  is  made  to  contemplate 
a  picture  of  happiness,  which,  perhaps,  the  sternness  of  his  own 
destiny  has  allowed  him  to  contemplate  as  a  picture  only.  A 
better  test  could  scarcely  be  adopted,  to  distinguish  a  sincere  and 
disinterested  friendship  from  one  of  mere  convenience,  than  a 
trial  of  patience  on  such  a  topic  It  is  true,  indeed,  that  the  in- 
cidents lately  recorded  afford  reason  to  believe  that  Hardress 
Cregan  was  not  one  of  those  forlorn  beings  who  are  made 

'to  love,  and  not  be  loved  again;2 

but  it  is  certain,  nevertheless,  that  when  Kyrle  Daly  first  men- 
tioned his  having  been  at  Castle  Chute,  and  driving  Anne  to  the 
race-course,  his  manner  was  rather  reserved  and  discouraging 
than  otherwise. 

'The  longer  I  live,'  Kyrle  said  at  length,  with  some  hesitation 
in  his  manner,  'the  longer  I  live  in  this  luckless  condition,  and 
the  oftener  I  think  of  that  excellent  girl,  the  more  deep  and  settled 
is  the  hold  which  she  has  taken  of  my  imagination.  I  wonder, 
Hardress,  how  you  can  be  so  indifferent  to  her  acquaintance. 
Placing  my  own  unfortunate  affection  altogether  out  of  view,  I 
can  scarcely  imagine  an  enjoyment  more  desirable  than  that  of 
cultivating  the  society  of  so  amiable  a  creature.' 

Here  he  drew  a  long  sigh,  and  replenished  the  void  thus  oc- 
casioned, by  having  recourse  to  the  bowl  and  ladle. 

'I  am  not  of  the  same  opinion,  Kyrle,'  said  Hardress.  'Anne 
Chute  is  unquestionably  a  very  fine  girl,  but  she  is  too  highly  edu- 
cated for  me.' 

'Too  highly  educated!' 

'Echo  me  not.  The  words  are  mine.  Yes,  Kyrle,  1  hold  that 
this  system  of  polishing  girls  ad  unguem,  is  likely  to  be  the  de- 
struction of  all  that  is  sincere  and  natural  and  unaffected  in  the 
sex.  It  is  giving  the  mind  an  unwholesome  preponderance  over 
the  heart,  occasioning  what  an  astronomer  would  call  an  occult- 
aiion  of  feeling,  by  the  intervention  of  reason.' 

'I  cannot  imagine  a  case,'  said  Kyrle,  'in  which  the  exercise 
of  reason  can  ever  become  excessive;  and  there  are  sneerers  under 

103 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

the  sun,  Hardress,  who  will  tell  you  that  this  danger  is  least  of  all 
to  be  apprehended  among  the  lovely  beings  of  whom  you  are 
speaking.' 

'I  think  otherwise.  As  I  prefer  the  works  of  nature  to  the 
work  of  man,  the  fresh  river  breeze  to  the  dusty  and  smoky  zephyr 
of  Capel-street,  the  bloom  on  a  cottage  cheek  to  the  crimson  japan 
that  blazes  at  the  Earl  of  Buckinghamshire's  drawing-rooms; 
as  I  love  a  plain  beef-steak  before  a  grilled  attorney,*  this  ex- 
cellent whiskey-punch  before  my  mother's  confounded  currant 
wine,  and  anything  else  that  is  pure  and  natural  before  anything 
else  that  is  adulterated  and  artificial;  so  do  I  love  the  wild  hedge- 
flower  simplicity  before  the  cold  and  sapless  exotic  fashion;  so 
do  I  love  the  voice  of  affection  and  of  nature  before  that  of  fineness 
and  affectation.' 

'Your  terms  are  a  little  too  hard,  I  think,'  said  Kyrle;  'elegance 
of  manner  is  not  finesse,  nor  at  all  the  opposite  of  simplicity;  it 
is  merely  simplicity  made  perfect.  I  grant  you,  that  few,  very 
few,  are  successful  in  acquiring  it;  and  I  dislike  its  ape,  affecta- 
tion, as  heartily  as  you  do.  But  we  find  something  that  is  conven- 
tional in  all  classes,  and  I  like  affectation  better  than  vulgarity, 
after  all.' 

'Vulgarity  of  manner,'  said  Hardress,  'is  more  tolerable  than 
vulgarity  of  mind.' 

'  One  is  only  offensive  as  the  indication  of  the  other,  and  I  think 
it  not  more  tolerable,  because  I  prefer  ugliness  masked  to 
ugliness  exposed.' 

'Why,  now,  Daly,  I  will  meet  you  on  tangible  ground.  There 
is  our  friend  Anne  Chute,  acknowledged  to  be  the  loveliest  girl  in 
her  circle,  and  one  whom  I  remember  a  charming,  good-natured 
little  hoyden  in  her  childhood.  And  see  what  high  education  has 
done  for  her. — She  is  cold  and  distant,  even  to  absolute  frigidity, 
merely  because  she  has  been  taught  that  insensibility  is  allied 
to  elegance.  What  was  habit  has  become  nature  with  her;  the  frost 
which  she  suffered  to  lie  so  long  upon  the  surface,  has  at  length 
penetrated  to  her  affections,  and  killed  every  germ  of  mirth  and 

*  It  is  notorious  that  the  drumstick  of  a  goose  or  turkey,  grilled 
and  highly  spiced,  was  called  a  devil.  Some  elegant  persons,  how- 
ever, who  deemed  that  term  too  strong  for  'ears  polite,'  were  at  the 
pains  of  looking  for  a  synonyme,  of  a  milder  sound,  and  discovered 
a  happy  substitute  in  the  word  attorney,  which  conveys  all  the  original 
force,  without  the  coarse  cacophony  of  the  other  phrase, 

104 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

love  and  kindness,  that  might  have  made  her  a  treasure  to  her 
friends  and  an  ornament  to  society.' 

'Believe  me — Hardress — believe  me,  my  dear  Hardress,  you 
do  her  wrong,'  exclaimed  Kyrle  with  exceeding  warmth.  'It 
is  not  that  I  love  Anne  Chute  I  speak,  but  because  I  know  and 
esteem  her.  If  I  knew  her  but  for  three  days,  instead  of  one  hour, 
you  would  never  again  pronounce  so  harsh  a  sentence.  All  that 
is  virtuous — all  that  is  tender  and  affectionate — all  that  is  amiable 
and  high-principled  may  be  met  with  in  that  admirable  woman. 
Take  the  pains  to  know  her  —  visit  her  —  speak  of  her  to  her 
friends — her  dependents — to  her  aged  mother — to  any  one  that 
has  observed  her  conduct,  and  you  will  be  undeceived.  Why 
will  you  not  strive  to  know  her  better  ? ' 

'Why,  you  must  consider  that  it  is  not  many  months  since  I 
returned  from  Dublin;  and  to  say  a  truth,  the  single  visit  I  paid 
at  Castle  Chute  was  not  calculated  to  tempt  me  to  a  second.  Con- 
sidering that  I  was  an  old  playfellow,  and  a  kind  of  cousin,  I 
thought  Anne  Chute  need  not  have  received  me  as  if  I  were  a 
tax-gatherer,  or  a  travelling  dancing-master.' 

'Why  what  would  you  have  her  do?  Throw  her  arms  about 
your  neck  and  kiss  you,  I  suppose  ? ' 

'Not  exactly.  You  know  the  class  of  people  of  whom  little 
Flaccus  said,  "Quum  vitia  vitant  in  contraria  currunt,"  and,  after 
all,  I  think  Anne  Chute  is  not  one  of  those.  Her  education  is 
little  worth  if  it  could  not  enable  her  to  see  a  medium  between 
two  courses  so  much  at  variance.' 

'  But  will  you  allow  a  friend  to  remind  you,  Hardress,  that  you 
are  a  little  overapt  to  take  exception  in  matters  of  this  kind.  And 
notwithstanding  all  that  you  have  been  saying  against  the  polite 
world,  I  will  venture  to  prophesy  this — that  when  circumstances 
shall  more  frequently  thrust  you  forward  on  the  stage,  and  custom 
shall  make  you  blind  to  the  slight  and  formal  insincerities  that 
grieve  you  at  present,  your  ideas  on  fashion  and  elegance  and 
education  will  undergo  a  change.  I  know  you,  Hardress;  you 
are  not  yet  of  age.  The  shadow  of  a  repulse  is  now  to  you  a  sen- 
tence of  banishment  from  any  circle  in  which  you  suppose  it  is 
offered;  but  when  you  shall  be  courted,  when  mothers  shall  dress 
their  daughters  at  you,  and  daughters  shall  shower  down  smiles 
upon  your  path;  when  fathers  shall  praise  your  drinking,  and 
sons  shall  eulogize  your  horses;  then,  Hardress,  look  to  it.  You 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

will  be  then  as  loud  and  talkative  before  the  whole  world  as  now 
in  presence  of  your  humble  friend.  You  will  smile  and  smile  a 
hundred  tunes  over  at  your  young  philosophy.' 

'Oh,  "never  shall  sun  that  morrow  see,'"  cried  Hardress, 
throwing  himself  back  in  his  chair,  and  raising  his  hands  in  seem- 
ing deprecation. — 'I  perceive  what  you  are  hitting  at,  Kyrle,'  he 
continued,  reddening  a  little.  'You  allude  to  my — my — timidity — 
bashfulness — what  you  will,  my  social  cowardice.  But  I  disclaim 
the  petty,  paltry  failing.  The  feeling  that  unnerves  me  in  so- 
ciety is  as  widely  different  from  that  base  consciousness  of  inferi- 
ority or  servile  veneration  of  wealth,  rank,  or  power,  as  the  anger 
of  Achilles  from  the  spite  of  Thersites.  You  may  laugh,  and 
call  me  self-conceited,  but,  upon  my  simple  honour,  I  speak  in 
pure  sincerity.  My  feeling  is  this,  my  dear  Kyrle.  New  as  I 
was  to  the  world  after  leaving  college  (where  you  know  I  studied 
pretty  hard),  the  customs  of  society  appeared  to  wear  a  strangeness 
in  my  sight  that  made  me  a  perfect  and  competent  judge  of  their 
value.  Their  hollowness  disgusted,  and  their  insipidity  provoked 
me.  I  could  not  join  with  any  ease  in  the  solemn  folly  of  bows 
and  becks  and  wreathed  smiles  that  can  be  put  on  or  off  at  pleasure. 
The  motive  of  the  simplest  forms  of  society  stared  me  in  the  face 
when  I  saw  them  acted  before  me,  and  if  I  attempted  to  play  a 
part  among  the  hypocrites  myself,  I  supposed  that  every  eye  around 
me  was  equally  clear-sighted — saw  through  the  hollow  assump- 
tion, and  despised  it  as  sincerely  in  me,  as  I  had  done  in  others. 
The  consciousness  of  guilt  was  evident  in  my  manner,  and  I  re- 
ceived the  mortification  which  ensued  as  the  just  punishment  of 
my  meanness  and  hypocrisy.' 

'You  do  express  yourself  in  sufficiently  forcible  terms  when  you 
go  about  it,'  said  Daly,  smiling.  'What  great  hypocrisy  or  mean- 
ness can  there  be  in  remarking  that  it  is  a  fine  day,  or  asking  after 
the  family  of  an  acquaintance,  even  though  he  should  know  that 
the  first  was  merely  intended  to  draw  on  a  conversation,  and  the 
second  to  show  him  a  mark  of  regard  ? ' 

'Which  I  did  not  feel.' 

'Granted.  Let  him  perceive  that  never  so  clearly,  there  is 
still  an  intention  implied  in  your  putting  the  question  at  all  with 
which  he  cannot  be  disobliged.  It  is  flattering  to  acknowledge 
the  necessity  of  such  a  deference.  And,  my  dear  Hardress,  if 
you  were  never  to  admit  of  ceremony  as  the  deputy  of  natural 

106 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

and  real  feeling,  what  would  become  of  the  whole  social  system  ? 
How  soon  the  mighty  vessel  would  become  a  wreck!  how  silent 
would  be  the  rich  man's  banquet!  how  solitary  the  great  man's 
chambers!  how  few  would  bow  before  the  throne!  how  lonely  and 
how  desolate  would  be  the  temples  of  religion!' 

You  are  the  more  bitter  satirist  of  the  two,'  said  Hardress. 

'No,  no,'  exclaimed  Kyrle.  'I  merely  reminded  you  of  an 
acknowledged  fact,  that  when  you  enroll  your  name  on  the  social 
list,  you  pledge  yourself  to  endure  as  well  as  to  enjoy.  As  long 
as  ever  you  live,  Hardress,  take  my  word  for  it,  you  never  will 
make,  nor  look  upon  a  perfect  world.  It  is  such  philosophy  as 
yours  that  goes  to  the  making  of  misanthropes.  The  next  time 
you  go  into  society,  resolve  to  accept  any  mortifications  you  shall 
endure  as  a  punishment  for  your  sins,  and  so  think  no  more  of 
them.  This  indifference  will  become  habitual,  and  while  it  does 
so,  those  necessary  hypocrisies  of  which  you  speak  will  grow 
familiar  and  inoffensive.' 

'I  see  no  occasion,'  said  Hardress,  'to  make  the  trial.  Plain 
human  nature  is  enough  for  me.  If  I  were  to  choose  a  com- 
panion for  life,  I  should  rather  hope  to  cull  the  sweet  fruit  of 
conjugal  happiness  in  the  wild  orchard  of  nature  than  from  the 
bark-beds  and  hot- walls  of  society.' 

'I  advise  you,  however/  said  Kyrle,  'not  to  make  the  choice 
until  you  have  greater  opportunities  of  observing  both  sides  of 
the  question.  Trust  not  to  the  permanence  of  your  present  feel- 
ings, nor  to  the  practical  correctness  of  your  curious  theories.  It 
would  be  too  late,  after  you  had  linked  yourself  to — to — simplicity, 
I  shall  call  it,  to  discover  that  elegance  was  a  good  thing,  after 
all.' 

Hardress  did  not  appear  to  relish  this  speech,  and  the  conver- 
sation, in  consequence,  was  discontinued  for  some  minutes.  Young 
Cregan  was  indeed  as  incapable  of  calculating  on  his  future  char- 
acter as  Kyrle  Daly  asserted.  He  was  in  that  period  of  life  (the 
most  critical,  perhaps,  of  all),  when  the  energies  of  the  mind,  as 
well  as  of  the  frame,-  begin  to  develop  themselves,  and  exhibit 
in  irregular  outbreaks  the  approaching  vigour  and  fire  of  man- 
hood. A  host  of  new  ideas,  at  this  time,  crowd  in  upon  the  reason, 
distinguished  rather  by  their  originality  and  genius  than  by  that 
correctness  and  good  order  which  is  derivable  from  instruction 
or  experience  alone;  and  it  depends  upon  the  circumstances  in 

107 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

which  the  young  thinker  is  placed,  whether  his  future  character 
shall  be  that  of  a  madman  or  a  sage.  It  was,  perhaps,  a  knowl- 
edge of  this  inventive  pride  in  youth  that  made  the  Stagirite 
assert  that  men  should  not  look  into  philosophical  works  before 
the  age  of  five-and-twenty. 

Hardress,  however,  although  very  sensitive,  was  not  one  of 
those  who  can  brood  a  long  time  over  an  evil  feeling.  'Well, 
Daly,'  he  exclaimed,  starting  from  a  reverie,  'we  will  each  of 
us  pursue  our  inclinations  on  this  subject.  Leave  me  to  the 
indulgence  of  my  theories,  and  I  will  wish  you  joy  of  your  Anne 
Chute.' 

'My  Anne  Chute!'  echoed  Daly,  sipping  his  punch  with 
a  sad  face.  'I  have  no  lien  upon  that  lady,  as  the  coun- 
sellors say.  She  may  sue  as  a  feme  sole  for  me  in  any  court 
in  Christendom.' 

Hardress  turned  on  him  a  look  of  extreme  surprise,  in  answer 
to  which  Kyrle  Daly  furnished  him  with  an  account  of  his  un- 
successful suit  to  Anne,  as  also  with  his  suspicions  as  to  another 
attachment.  The  deep  feeling  of  disappointment  under  which 
he  laboured  became  apparent  as  he  proceeded  in  his  discourse, 
in  the  warmth  and  eagerness  of  his  manner,  the  frequent  compres- 
sion of  his  lips,  and  clenching  of  his  trembling  hands,  the  damp- 
ness of  his  forehead,  and  the  sparkling  of  his  moistened  eyeballs. 
The  sight  of  his  friend,  in  suffering,  turned  the  stream  of  Hardress 
Cregan's  sympathies  into  another  channel,  and  he  employed  all 
his  eloquence  and  ingenuity  in  combating  the  dangerous  dejec- 
tion which  was  hourly  gaining  upon  his  spirit.  He  declared  his 
disbelief  in  the  idea  of  another  attachment,  and  recommended 
perseverance  by  every  argument  in  his  power. 

'But  the  state  of  her  mind,'  he  continued,  'shall  not  remain 
long  a  secret  to  you.  They  have  been  both  (Anne  and  her  mother) 
invited  to  spend  a  part  of  the  autumn  with  us  at  Dinis  Cottage. 
My  mother  is  a  great  secret-hunter,  and  I  need  only  tell  her  where 
the  game  lies,  to  make  certain  that  it  will  be  hunted  down.  Trust 
everything  to  me;  for  your  sake  I  will  take  some  pains  to  become 
better  known  to  this  extraordinary  girl;  and  you  may  depend  upon 
it,  if  she  will  suffer  me  to  mount  above  zero,  you  shall  not  suffer 
in  my  good  report.' 

When  the  conversation  had  reached  this  juncture,  the  silence 
which  prevailed  in  the  cottage  showed  that  the  night  was  already 

108 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

far  advanced.  The  punch  had  descended  so  low,  as  to  leave  the 
bowl  of  the  ladle  more  than  half  visible;  the  candles  seemed  to 
meditate  suicide,  while  the  neglected  snuff,  gathering  to  a  pall 
above  the  flame,  threw  a  gloomy  and  flickering  shadow  on  the 
ceiling;  the  turf  en-fire  was  little  more  than  a  heap  of  pale  ashes, 
before  which  the  drowsy  household  cat,  in  her  sphynx-like  attitude, 
sat  winking,  and  purring  her  monotonous  song  of  pleasure;  the 
abated  storm  (like  a  true  Irish  storm)  seemed  to  mourn  with  re- 
pentant bowlings  over  the  desolating  effects  of  its  recent  fury; 
the  dog  lay  dreaming  on  the  hearth,  the  adjoining  farmyard  was 
silent,  all  but  the  fowl-house,  where  some  garrulous  dame  partlet, 
with  female  pertinacity,  still  maintained  a  kind  of  drowsy  clucking 
on  her  roost;  the  natural  hour  of  repose  seemed  to  have  pro- 
duced its  effect  upon  the  battling  elements  themselves;  the  tem- 
pest had  folded  his  black  wings  upon  the  ocean,  and  the  waters 
broke  upon  the  shore  with  a  murmur  of  expiring  passion.  With- 
in doors  or  without,  there  was  no  sight  nor  sound  that  did  not 
convey  a  hint  of  bedtime  to  the  watchers. 

To  make  this  hint  the  stronger,  Mrs.  Frawley  showed  the  disk 
of  her  full-blown  countenance  at  the  door,  as  round  as  the  autum- 
nal moon,  and  like  that  satellite,  illuminated  by  a  borrowed  light, 
namely,  the  last  inch  of  a  dipped  candle  which  burned  in  her  hand. 
'Masther  Kyrle,  darling,'  she  exclaimed  in  a  tone  of  tender  re- 
monstrance, 'won't  you  go  to  bed  to-night,  child?  'Tis  near 
morning,  dear  knows.' 

'  Is  Lowry  Looby  in  bed  ? ' 

'No,  sir,  he's  waiting  to  know  have  you  any  commands  to  Cork; 
he's  going  to  guide  the  car  in  the  morning  with  the  firkins.' 

Lowry  here  introduced  his  person  before  that  of  the  dairy- 
woman,  causing,  however,  rather  a  transit  than  an  eclipse  of 
that  moon  of  womanhooa. 

'Or  Misther  Cregan?'  he  exclaimed.  'Maybe  he'd  have  some 
commands  westwards?  Because  if  he  had,  I  could  lave  'em  at 
the  forge  at  the  cross  above,  with  directions  to  have  'em  sent 
down  to  the  house.' 

'I  have  no  commands,'  said  Hardress,  'except  to  say  that  I 
will  be  at  home  on  next  Friday.' 

'And  I  have  none  whatever,'  said  Kyrle  Daly,  rising  and  tak- 
ing one  of  the  candles.  'Hardress,  mind  you  don't  give  me  the 
counterfeit,  the  slip,  in  the  morning.' 

109 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

This  caution  produced  a  hospitable  battle  which  ended  in  Har- 
dress  Cregan's  maintaining  his  purpose  of  departing  with  the 
dawn  of  day.  The  friends  then  shook  hands  and  separated  for 
the  night. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

HOW  LOWRY  BECOMES  PHILOSOPHICAL 

AS  Lowry  Looby  returned  to  the  kitchen  he  was  met  by  Nelly 
the  housemaid,  who  reminded  him  that  he  would  be  obliged 
to  start  before  the  potatoes  could  be  boiled  in  the  morning,  and  rec- 
ommended, as  a  preparatory  measure,  that  he  should  take  his 
breakfast  overnight.  Secure  of  his  indulging  her  in  so  reason- 
able a  request,  she  had  already,  under  Mrs.  Frawley's  favour,  laid 
on  a  little  table  before  the  kitchen  fire  the  remains  of  the  roast 
duck  (so  often  commemorated  in  this  narrative),  a  plate  of  're- 
heaters'  (such  was  Nelly's  term  for  potatoes  suffered  to  cool  and 
warmed  again  in  the  red  turf -ashes),  as  also  a  piece  of  pork,  four 
inches  in  depth,  and  containing  no  lean  that  was  visible  on  a  cur- 
sory inspection.  This  last  was  a  dish  for  which  Nelly  knew  Lowry 
Looby  to  entertain  a  fondness  worthy  of  his  ancient  Irish  descent. 
Indeed,  on  all  occasions  Nelly  was  observed  to  take  an  interest 
in  consulting  the  inclinations  of  this  long-legged  person;  a  kind- 
ness upon  her  part  which  the  ungrateful  Lowry  seemed  little 
inclined  to  appreciate. 

The  present  proposal,  however,  harmonized  so  sweetly  with 
his  own  feelings  at  the  moment,  that  he  signified  a  speedy  com- 
pliance, and  followed  the  nymph  into  her  culinary  retreat.  The 
kitchen  presented  a  scene  no  less  drowsy  than  the  parlour.  Mrs. 
Frawley  was  saying  her  prayers  by  the  fireside,  with  a  string  of 
beads  that  hung  down  to  the  ground,  now  and  then  venting  a 
deep  sigh,  then  '  running  her  godly  race '  through  a  fit  of  yawning, 
and  anon  casting  a  glance  over  her  shoulder  at  the  proceedings 
of  the  two  domestics,  while  every  new  distraction  was  followed 
by  a  succession  of  more  audible  groans,  and  more  vehement  as- 
saults with  the  closed  hand  upon  her  bosom.  Danny  Mann  was 
sleeping  heavily  on  the  other  side  of  the  fire,  with  his  red  woollen 

no 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

comforter  drying  on  his  knee.  In  order  to  avoid  disturbing  either 
the  slumbers  of  the  one,  or  the  devotions  of  the  other,  Nelly  and 
her  swain  were  obliged  to  carry  on  their  conversation  in  a  low, 
whispering  voice  which  gave  additional  effect  to  the  sleepy  tone 
of  the  entire  scene.  The  shadows  of  the  whole  party,  like  the 
fame  of  genius  magnified  by  distance,  were  thrown  in  gigantic 
similitude  upon  the  surrounding  walls.  There  Mrs.  Frawley 
dilated  to  the  dimensions  of  an  ogre's  wife,  and  here  Danny  Manns' 
hunch  became  to  the  original  as  Ossa  to  Knock-Patrick.  Looby's 
expanded  mouth  showed  like  the  opening  to  Avernus,  and  the 
tight  little  Nelly  herself,  as  she  sat  opposite,  assumed  the  stature 
of  Mr.  Salt's  black  breccia  Memnon,  which  any  reader,  who  is 
curious  about  Nelly's  personal  outline,  may  behold  in  the  ninth 
room  of  the  British  Museum. 

While  Lowry  consoled  himself  with  the  greasy  pork,  swallow- 
ing it  with  as  lively  a  relish  as  if  it  were  the  green  fat  of  a  Gallip- 
agos  turtle,  he  gave  Nelly  a  history  of  the  day's  adventures,  not 
forgetting  his  own  triumph  at  the  staggeen  race,  and  the  disappear- 
ance of  Eily  O'Connor.  Nelly  was  the  better  pleased  with  his 
account  of  these  transactions,  as  he  thought  fit  to  abstain,  in  the 
first  instance,  from  all  mention  of  Syl  Carney;  and  in  speaking 
of  the  ropemaker's  daughter,  to  omit  those  customary  eulogies 
which  he  dealt  forth  whenever  her  name  was  brought  in  question. 
Emboldened  by  this  circumstance,  Nelly  did  not  hesitate  to  throw 
out  some  plain  insinuations  as  to  the  probable  cause  of  the  mystery, 
which  did  not  much  redound  to  the  honour  of  the  charming  fugi- 
tive, and  she  became  still  more  impassioned  in  her  invective,  after 
Mrs.  Frawley  had  relieved  them  from  the  restraint  of  her  presence, 
and  retired  to  her  sleeping-room. 

'  Often  an'  often  I  told  you,  Lowry,  that  it  wasn't  for  you  to  be 
looken'  afther  a  girl  o'  that  kind,  that  thought  herself  as  good  as 
a  lady.  Great  business,  indeed,  a  poor  man  o'  your  kind  would 
have  of  one  like  her,  that  would  be  too  grand  to  put  a  leg  in  a  skeogh  * 
to  wash  the  potaties,  or  lay  a  hand  on  the  pot-hooks  to  sthrain 
'em  if  they  wor  broke  to  tatthers.' 

'That  I  may  never  die  in  sin  if  ever  I  had  a  thought  of  her, 
Nelly,  only  just  divarten'  at  Bat  Coonerty's.' 

'What  a  show  the  house  would  be  with  ye!'  continued  Nelly, 
still  following  up  the  matrimonial  picture,  'an'  you  a  hard-worken' 

*  Basket. 

Ill 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

boy,  obleest  to  be  up  early  and  late  at  other  people's  bidden*. 
I'll  be  bound  that  isn't  the  girl  that  would  be  up  with  the  lark  an' 
have  a  fire  made,  an'  a  griddle  o'  bread  down  in  the  morning 
before  you,  an'  you  going  a  long  road;  or  have  the  hearth  swep', 
an'  your  supper  ready,  an'  everything  nate  about  the  place  for 
you,  when  you'd  be  coming  back  at  night.  But  I  believe  there's 
a  chim&ra*  before  the  boys'  eyes  that  they  don't  know  what's 
good  for  'em.' 

'Look!'  exclaimed  Lowry,  while  he  broke  a  potato  between 
his  fingers,  swallowed  one-half  at  a  mouthful,  and  tossed  the 
crisped  peel  upon  the  table.  'That  I  may  be  happy,  if  she  was 
offered  to  me  this  minute  if  I'd  take  her.  Sure  I  know  I'd  have 
no  more  business  of  such  a  girl  upon  my  floore  than  I  would 
of  Miss  Chute  herself.  But  there's  no  raison  for  all  why  I  wouldn't 
be  sorry  for  ould  Mihil's  trouble.  He's  gone  westwards,  Foxy 
Dunat  the  hair-cutter  tells  me,  to  his  brother,  Father  Ned,  I  sup- 
pose to  get  him  to  publish  her  from  the  altar  or  something.  They 
think  'tis  westwards  she  went.' 

Happening  at  this  moment  to  cast  his  eyes  upon  Danny  Mann, 
Lowry  perceived,  with  a  sensation  of  disagreeable  surprise,  that 
he  was  awake,  and  peering  curiously  upon  him  from  below  the 
half-raised  lids.  The  red  firelight  which  gleamed  on  the  eyeballs 
gave  them  a  peculiar  and  equivocal  lustre,  which  added  force  to 
their  native  sharpness  of  expression.  Danny  felt  the  ill  effect  he 
had  produced,  and  carried  it  off  with  a  fit  of  yawning  and  stretch- 
ing, asking  Lowry  at  the  same  time,  with  a  drowsy  air,  if  he  meant 
to  go  to  bed  at  all  ? 

'To  be  sure  I  do,'  said  Lowry,  'when  it's  pleasing  to  the  com- 
pany to  part.  There's  a  time  for  all  things,  as  they  say  hi  the 
Reading-made-asy . ' 

'Surely,  surely,'  returned  Danny  with  a  yawn.  'Dear  knows, 
den,  the  Readen-made-asy  tune  is  come  now,  for  'tis  a'most 
mornen'.' 

'I  always,  mostly,  smoke  a  drass  before  I  go  to  bed  of  a  night,' 
said  Lowry,  turning  towards  the  fire,  and  clearing  the  bowl  of 
his  pipe  by  knocking  it  gently  against  the  bar  of  the  grate;  'I 
like  to  be  smoken'  an'  talkin'  when  the  company  is  agreeable 
and  I  see  no  raison  for  bein'  in  a  hurry  to-night  above  all  others. 
Come,  Nelly,'  he  added,  while  he  chopped  up  a  little  tobacco, 
*An  optical  illusion. 

112 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

and  pressed  it  into  the  bowl  with  the  tip  of  his  little  finger,  '  come 
here,  an'  sit  near  me,  I  want  to  be  talken'  to  you.' 

Saying  this,  he  took  a  half-burnt  sod  from  the  fire,  crushed  the 
bowl  into  the  burning  portion,  and  after  offering  it  in  vain  to  Danny, 
placed  it  in  the  corner  of  his  mouth.  He  then  remained  for  some 
minutes,  with  his  eyes  half  closed,  drawing  in  the  fire  with  his 
breath,  and  coaxing  it  with  his  finger,  until  the  vapour  flowed  freely 
through  the  narrow  tube,  and  was  emitted  at  intervals,  at  the  op- 
posite corner  of  his  mouth,  in  a  dense  and  spiry  stream. 

'An'  what  do  you  want  to  be  saying?'  said  Nell,  taking  her 
seat  between  Lowry  and  the  lord;  '  I'll  engage  you  have  nothing 
to  say  to  me  afther  all.' 

'  Come  a  little  nearer,'  said  Lowry,  without  changing  his  posi- 
tion. 

'  Well,  there  why,'  returned  Nelly,  moving  her  chair  a  little  closer; 
'will  that  do?' 

'No,  it  won't.  'Tis  a  whisper  I  have  for  you.  Misther  Mann 
would  hear  me  if  I  told  it  to  you  where  you  are.' 

'Oh,  a  whisper!  Well,  now  I'm  close  enough  anyway,'  she 
said,  placing  her  chair  in  contact  with  that  of  Lowry. 

The  latter  took  the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  advanced  his 
face  so  close  to  that  of  the  expectant  housemaid,  that  she  feared 
he  was  about  to  snatch  a  kiss.  Perhaps  it  was  in  mere  curiosity, 
to  satisfy  herself  whether  in  fact  he  could  possess  so  much  audac- 
ity, that  Nelly  did  not  avert  that  danger  by  moving  her  head  aside; 
but  greatly  to  her  surprise,  and  doubtless,  likewise,  to  her  satis- 
faction, the  honest  man  proved  that  he  had  no  such  insolent  in- 
tention. When  he  had  attained  a  convenient  proximity,  he  merely 
parted  his  lips  a  little,  and  puffed  a  whole  volume  of  smoke  into 
her  eyes.  Nelly  uttered  a  gentle  scream  and  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands,  while  Danny  and  Lowry  exchanged  a  broad  grin 
of  satisfaction. 

'Well,  Lowry,'  exclaimed  the  girl  with  much  good  humour, 
'  you're  the  greatest  rogue  going,  and  that's  your  name  this  night.' 

Lowry  appeared  to  muse  for  a  few  moments  while  he  continued 
the  enjoyment  of  his  pipe.  In  a  little  time  he  once  more  took  it 
from  his  lips,  puffed  forth  the  last  whiff,  and  said,  '  Misther  Mann, 
they  may  say  this  and  that  of  the  world,  an'  of  poverty  and  riches, 
an'  humility  an'  gentility,  and  everything  else  they  like,  but  here's 
my*  word  ever,  If  I  was  a  king  upon  a  throne  this  minute,  an'  I 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

wanted  to  have  a  smoke  for  myself  by  the  fireside,  why  if  I  was 
to  do  my  best,  what  could  I  smoke  but  one  pen'orth  o'  tobacco  in 
the  night  afther  all?  An'  can't  I  have  that,  as  it  is,  just  as  aisy? 
If  I  was  to  have  a  bed  with  down  feathers  upon  it,  what  could  I 
do  more  than  sleep  there?  An'  sure  I  can  do  that  in  the  settle- 
bed  above.  If  I  was  able  to  buy  the  whole  market  out  an  out, 
what  could  I  ate  of  it  more  than  I  did  to-night  of  that  pork  upon 
the  table  ?  Do  you  see  now,  Misther  Mann  ?  Do  you  see,  Nelly  ? 
Unless  he  could  smoke  two  pipes  of  a  night  instead  of  one,  or  sleep 
more,  or  ate  more  without  hurt,  I  don't  say  what's  the  advantage 
a  king  has  over  a  poor  man  like  myself.' 

'A'  sure,  you  know  that's  foolish  talk,  Lowry.  Sure  the  king 
could  buy  and  sell  you  at  the  fair  if  he  liked.' 

'He  couldn't  without  the  jury,'  returned  Lowry;  'the  judge 
and  jury  ever.  He  couldn't  lay  a  wet  finger  on  me,  without  the 
jury,  becoorse  of  law.  The  round  o'  the  world  is  as  free  to  me  as 
it  is  to  him,  if  the  world  be  round  in  airnest,  as  they  say  it  is.' 

'Round,  ayeh?'  said  Nell. 

'Iss,  to  be  sure.' 

Danny  Mann  looked  at  him  for  a  moment.  'Is  it  the  world 
we're  walkin'  on  ? '  he  asked  in  some  surprise. 

'To  be  sure;  what  else?' 

'A'  don't  be  talking,'  returned  Danny,  turning  his  head  away 
in  perfect  scorn  of  the  hypothesis. 

'Faix,  I  tell  you  no  lie,'  said  Lowry,  "tis  printed  in  all  the  books 
in  Europe.  They  say  that  if  it  wasn't  round,  we'd  soon  be  done 
for.  We  couldn't  keep  our  hoult  upon  it  at  all,  only  to  go  flying 
through  the  elements,  the  Lord  save  us!' 

'Oh,  vo!  vo!' said  Nelly;  'well,  that  bates  Ireland.' 

'Sure  there's  more  says  that  it  isn't  the  sun  above  to  be  moven' 
at  all,  only  we  goin'  round  it.' 

'That  the  sun  doesn't  stir?' 

'Not  a  peg.' 

'Well,  now  you  may  hould  your  tongue,  after  dat,'  said  Danny, 
'after  wantin'  to  take  de  eyesight  from  us.  Sure  the  whole  world 
sees  the  sun  goin',  anyway.' 

'I  wouldn't  believe  that,'  said  Nelly,  'if  they  were  to  put  their 
eyes  upon  sticks.' 

'I  wouldn't  be  so,'  returned  Lowry;  'what  business  would  a 
poor  boy  o'  my  kind  have  goin'  again'  men  that  are  able  to  write 

114 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

books,  let  alone  readen'  'em.  But  'tis  the  foolishness  of  the  women,' 
he  continued,  fixing  upon  Nelly  as  the  least  pugnacious  opponent; 
'women  are  always  for  foolishness.  They'll  b'lieve  or  not  b'lieve, 
just  as  they  like  themselves.  Equal  to  Dan  Dawley's  second 
wife:  did  you  ever  hear  o'  that  business,  Misther  Mann?' 

'Not  as  I  know.' 

'Well,  stir  up  the  fire,  Nelly,  an'  put  down  a  couple  o*  sods, 
an'  I'll  tell  it  while  I  am  finishing  my  pipe,  an'  then  we'll  all  be 
off  to  bed.  Dan  Dawley  was  married  the  second  time  to  a  very 
nice  girl,  one  Jug  Minaham  (he's  the  steward  at  Castle  Chute, 
behind).  Well,  he  was  out  of  a  day  at  work,  an'  his  wife  was 
setten'  alone  by  the  fire,  a  few  weeks  afther  they  being  married. 
Now  there  was  one  o'  the  stones  in  the  chimney  (as  it  might  be 
that  stone  there),  an'  it  stood  out  loose  from  the  morthar  a  dale 
beyond  the  rest.  Well,  she  sat  looking  at  it  for  a  while,  and 
the  thought  come  in  her  head:  "If  I  had  a  child  now,"  says  she, 
"an'  he  was  standing  a-near  that  stone,  maybe  'twould  fall  out 
and  brain  him  on  me."  An'  with  the  thought  o'  that  she  began 
roaring  and  bawling  equal  to  anything  ever  you  hear.' 

'  Oh,  then,  she  was  a  foolish  girl,'  said  Nelly. 

'Dear  knows  that  was  her  name,'  said  Danny. 

'Well,  her  old  mother  heerd  her  bawling,  an'  she  came  in  the 
greatest  hurry.  "A'  what  ails  you,  Jug?"  says  she.  So  Jug  up 
and  told  her  her  thought  about  the  stone,  an'  began  bawling  worse 
than  ever.  An'  if  she  did,  the  mother  joined  her,  and  such  a  pillilu 
as  they  raised  between  'em  was  never  known.  That  was  well  an' 
good.  Well,  Dan  was  abroad  in  the  potatie-garden,  an'  he  heard 
the  work  goin'  on  in  his  house,  crying  equal  to  a  funeral.  "What's 
this  about?"  says  Dan;  "there's  somebody  murthered,  surely." 
So  he  made  for  the  doore,  an'  in  -he  walked,  an'  there  he  found  the 
pair  o'  ladies.  "A'  what  ails  you,  mother  ?  "  said  he.  "  Jug  will  tell 
you,  agra,"  says  the  mother.  So  he  looked  at  Jug.  "Thinken'  I 
was,"  says  she,  still  crying,  "that  if  the  child  was  born,  an'  if  that 
stone  there  fell  upon  him,  'twould  brain  him  on  me."  Well,  Dan 
stood  for  a  while  looken'  at  her.  "If  the  sky  fell,"  says  he,  "  we'd 
catch  larks.  An'  is  that  all  that  happened  you?"  "Isn't  it 
enough?"  says  she  again.  Well,  he  stopped  a  long  while  thinking 
in  his  mind,  and  then  he  reached  out  a  hand  to  her.  "Well,"  says 
he,  "  that's  the  foolishest  thing  I  ever  knew  in  my  life,  an'  I'll  tell  you 
what  it  is,  I  never'U  take  a  day  with  you  from  this  hour,  until  I'll 

"5 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

find  a  woman,"  says  he,  "that's  foolisher  than  yourself."  No 
sooner  said  than  done;  out  he  walked,  laving  'em  after  him  to  do  as 
they  plased.  Well,  there  was  a  long  day  before  him,  an'  he  walked  a 
dale  before  nightfall,  an'  he  didn't  know  where  he'd  turn  to  for  his 
bed  and  dinner.  " But  sure  I'm  asy  about  it,"  says  he;  "sure  while 
there's  fools  of  women  in  the  place,  I'll  engage  I  needn't  starve." 
"  Well,  he  called  a  gorcoon  that  was  going  the  road.  "Whose  farm- 
house," says  he,  "is  that  I  see  over  there?"  "It's  belongin'  to  a 
widow  woman,  sir,"  said  the  boy.  "What  sort  of  a  man  was  her 
husband?"  says  Dan.  "A  small,  dark  man,  an'  wearing  top-boots," 
says  the  boy.  Well  become  Dan,  he  made  for  the  house,  an'  axed 
for  the  lone  woman.  She  was  standen'  on  the  lawn,  looking  at  her 
cows  milking,  when  Dan  made  towards  her.  "Well,  where  do  you 
come  from?"  says  the  widow  woman.  "From  heaven,  ma'am," 
says  Dan,  making  a  bow.  "From  heaven!"  says  she,  looking  at 
him  with  her  eyes  open.  "Yes,  ma'am,"  says  he,  "for  a  little  start. 
An'  I  seen  your  husband  there  too,  ma'am."  "  My  husband,  inagh,'* 
says  she,  looking  at  him  very  knowing;  "can  you  tell  me  what  sort 
of  a  man  he  was?"  "A  small  dark  man,"  says  Dan,  "an'  wearing 
top-boots."  "  I  give  it  in  to  you,"  says  she, "  that's  the  man.  Come 
this  way,  an'  tell  me  what  did  he  say  to  you,  or  did  he  give  any 
message  to  me?:'  Well,  Dan  put  no  bounds  to  his  tongue,  just  to 
thry  her.  "He  bid  me  tell  you,"  says  he,  "  that  he's  very  badly  off 
for  want  of  victuals;  an'  he'd  like  to  have  the  young  grey  horse  to  be 
ridin'  for  himself,  an'  he'd  do  as  much  if  you  could  send  'em  to  him." 
"  Why  then,  I'll  do  that,"  says  the  widow,  "  for  he  was  a  good  hus- 
band to  me  when  he  lived.  What  time  will  you  be  going  back  ?  " 
"  To-morrow  or  afther,"  says  Dan,  "  afther  I  see  my  people." 
"  Well,  stay  here  to-night,"  says  she,  "  an'  I'll  give  you  something 
to  take  to  him  in  the  morning."  Well  became  her,  she  brought  him 
in,  and  trated  him  like  a  prince  that  night,  with  music  an'  dancing; 
an'  in  the  morning  she  had  the  grey  horse  at  the  doore  with  a  bag  o' 
flour,  and  a  crock  o'  butter,  an'  a  round  o'  corned  beef.  Well,  Dan 
mounted  the  horse,  an'  away  with  him  home  to  his  wife.  "  Well, 
Jug,"  says  he,  "  I'll  take  with  you  all  my  days,  for  as  bad  as  you  are, 
there's  more  that's  twice  worse;  an'  I  believe  if  I  went  farther 
'tis  worse  an'  worse  I'd  be  getting  to  the  world's  end."  So  he 
told  'em  the  whole  business,  an'  they  had  a  merry  supper  that  night, 
and  for  weeks  afther,  on  what  Dan  brought  home  with  him." 

*  Is  it! 

116 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'  He  was  a  rogue,  for  all,'  said  Nelly, '  to  keep  the  poor  woman's 
horse  upon  her.' 

*  She  deserved  it,'  said  Danny, '  an'  worse.  I  never  heard  o'  such 
a  fool.  Well,  Lowry,  will  you  go  to  bed  now  at  last  ?  ' 

The  question  was  answered  in  the  affirmative;  and  Danny  was 
at  the  same  time  pressed  to  take  a  share  of  the  sweets  of  the  table, 
which  he  resolutely  refused.  Soon  after,  the  careful  Nelly,  having 
made  Lowry  turn  his  head  another  way,  ascended  by  a  ladder  to  her 
pallet,  on  a  loft  over  the  parlour;  while  Lowry  and  the  little  lord 
rolled  into  the  settle-bed  together,  the  one  to  dream  of  breakers,  raw 
onions,  whiskey,  and  '  Misther  Hardhress ';  the  other,  of  Foxy 
Dunat's  mare,  and  the  black  eyes  of  Syl  Carney. 


CHAPTER  XV 

HOW   HARDRESS    SPENT   HIS    TIME   WHILE   KYRLE   DALY   WAS 
ASLEEP 

ALL  were  now  asleep  except  the  two  strangers,  and  the  silence 
which  reigned  throughout  the  little  cottage  showed  Hardress 
that  no  ear  was  capable  of  detecting  his  movements.  He  opened 
his  room-door  softly,  slipped  his  shoes  from  his  feet,  and  leaving  the 
light  burning  on  his  table,  trusted  to  the  famous  sixth  sense  of  the 
German  physiologists  for  a  chance  of  finding  his  way  among 
the  chairs  and  tables  in  the  dark.  He  reached  the  door  without 
a  stumble;  and  perceived,  by  the  light  which  streamed  through  the 
keyhole  and  under  the  door  of  his  fair  friend's  apartment,  that  she 
still  expected  him. 

Their  meeting,  though  silent,  was  impassioned  and  affectionate. 
Hardress  inquired,  with  the  tender  and  sedulous  attention  of  a  newly- 
married  man,  whether  she  felt  any  injurious  effects  from  the  storm — 
whether  she  had  changed  her  dress,  and  taken  some  refreshment — 
whether,  in  fine,  her  situation  was  in  any  way  inconvenient  to  her  ? 

*  In  no  way  at  all,  Mr.  Hardress,  as  to  any  of  these  things  you 
mention,'  she  replied  in  a  low  voice,  for  she  was  fearful  of  waking 
Mrs.  Frawley  in  the  next  room.  '  But  as  to  the  mind!  may  heaven 
never  give  you  the  affliction  of  spending  two  such  hours  as  I  have 
done  since  I  entered  this  room! ' 

117 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'  My  life,  why  will  you  speak  so  ?  What  other  course  remained 
for  our  adoption?  You  know  your  father's  temper,  he  would  as 
soon  have  died  as  sanctioned  a  private  marriage,  such  as  ours  must 
be  for  some  time  longer.  It  would  be  absolute  ruin  to  me  if  my 
mother  knew  of  my  having  contracted  such  an  engagement 
without  consulting  her  wishes;  and  my  father,  as  I  have  before 
told  you,  will  act  exactly  as  she  desires.  And  why,  now,  my  love, 
will  you  indulge  those  uneasy  humours?  Are  you  not  my  bride, 
my  wife,  the  chosen  of  my  heart,  and  the  future  partner  of  my 
fortunes?  Do  you  really  think  that  I  would  forget  my  little 
angel's  feelings  so  far  as  to  omit  anything  in  my  power  that  might 
set  her  mind  at  rest  ?  If  you  do,  I  must  tell  you  that  I  love  you 
more  than  you  imagine.' 

'  Oh,  Mr.  Hardress!  oh,  don't  say  that  at  all,  sir,'  said  the  young 
woman  with  frankness  and  ready  warmth  of  manner.  '  Only  I  was 
just  thinking,  an'  I  sitting  by  the  fire,  what  a  heart-break  it  would  be 
to  my  father  if  anybody  put  it  into  his  head  that  the  case  was  worse 
than  it  is '  (here  she  hung  down  her  head) ;  '  and  no  more  would  be 
wanting  but  just  a  little  word  on  a  scrap  o'  paper,  to  let  him  know 
taat  he  needn't  be  uneasy,  and  he'd  know  all  in  time.' 

This  suggestion  appeared  to  jar  against  the  young  gentleman's 
inclinations.  '  If  you  wish,'  said  he,  with  a  little  earnestness  of 
voice,  '  I  will  return  with  you  to  Garryowen  to-morrow,  and  have 
our  marriage  made  public  from  the  altar  of  John's  Gate  chapel.  I 
have  no  object  in  seeking  to  avoid  my  own  ruin  greater  than  that  of 
preventing  you  from  sharing  it.  But  if  you  will  insist  upon  running 
the  hazard — hazard?  I  mean,  if  you  are  determined  on  certainly 
destroying  our  prospects  of  happiness,  your  will  shall  be  dearer  to  me 
than  fortune  or  friends  either.  If  you  have  a  father  to  feel  for  you, 
you  will  not  forget,  my  love,  that  I  have  a  mother  whom  I  love  as 
tenderly,  and  whose  feelings  deserve  some  consideration  at  my 
hands.' 

The  gentle  girl  seemed  affected,  but  not  hurt,  by  this  speech. 
'  Don't  be  angry  with  me,'  she  said,  laying  her  hand  affectionately 
on  his  shoulder, '  don't  be  angry,  Mr.  Hardress.  I  know  I  have  a 
very  bad  head,  and  can't  see  into  everything  at  once;  but  one  word 
from  you  (and  it  needn't  be  an  angry  one  either)  is  enough  to  open 
my  eyes.  Insist,  do  you  say,  Mr.  Hardress?  Indeed,  sir,  I  was 
never  made  to  insist  upon  anything.  But  when  a  thought,  foolish 
as  it  is,  once  comes  into  my  head,  I  long  to  speak  of  it,  to  know  what 

118 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

you  will  say,  to  know  if  it  is  wrong  or  right.     You  wouldn't  wish  that 
I  should  keep  it  from  you,  sir?  ' 

'  Never,  oh,  never!     Do  not  think  of  that.' 

'  I  never  will  practise  it  long,  anyway,  for  such  thoughts  as  those, 
if  I  were  to  hide  them,  would  kill  me  before  a  month.  But  keep 
always  near  me,  my  dear,  dear  Mr.  Hardress,  for  though  you  showed 
me  that  there  is  nothing  very  criminal  in  what  I  have  done,  yet  when 
you  leave  me  long  alone  the  reasons  go  out  of  my  head,  and  I  only 
think  of  what  the  neighbours  are  saying  about  me  this  way,  and  of 
what  my  father  must  feel  listening  to  them.  Don't  think  now,  sir, 
that  I  am  going  to  question  what  you  tell  me  (for  I  trust  in  you  next 
to  heaven),  but  if  I  am  not  so  much  to  blame,  why  is  it  that  my  mind 
is  not  at  ease?  The  storm,  sir — oh,  that  storm!  When  the  waves 
rose,  and  the  boat  rocked,  and  the  wind  howled  about  me,  how  my 
feelings  changed  on  a  sudden !  I  strove  to  look  quiet  before  you, 
but  my  heart  was  leaping  for  fear  within  me.  When  we  sank  down 
in  the  darkness  and  rose  in  the  light,  when  the  waves  were  dashen' 
in  over  the  side,  and  the  sails  were  dippen'  in  the  water,  I  thought 
of  my  father's  fireside,  and  I  was  sure  that  it  was  the  anger  of  the 
Almighty,  hunting  the  disobedient  child  over  the  dark  waters.  I 
thought  I  never  would  walk  the  land  again.  And  how  will  it  be, 
says  I,  if  the  boat  breaks  under  us,  and  my  father  is  told  that  his 
daughter  was  washed  ashore  a  corpse,  with  a  blot  upon  her  name, 
and  no  one  living  that  can  clear  it? — But,  I  give  thanks  to  heaven! ' 
the  poor  girl  continued,  clasping  her  hands,  and  looking  upward 
with  tears  in  her  eyes, '  that  judgment  has  been  spared;  not  for  my 
merit,  I  am  sure,  but  for  its  own  mercy.' 

'  And  is  that  not  a  quieting  remembrance,  Eily?'  said  her  hus- 
band. 

'  Oh,  that  is  not  all,'  said  Eily,  '  that  is  not  the  worst.  Every 
movement  that  I  make  seems  to  bring  down  the  anger  of  heaven 
since  I  first  thought  of  deceiving  my  father.  Do  you  remember  the 
morning  of  our  marriage?'  she  added,  with  a  slight  shudder;  'I- 
never  can  put  that  frightful  morning  out  of  my  mind.  'Tis  always 
before  my  eyes.  The  little  room  inside  the  sacristy,  and  the  candles 
burning  on  the  small  table,  and  the  grey  dawn  just  breaking 
through  the  window!  We  did  not  marry  as  other  people  do,  in 
their  families,  or  in  the  open  daylight.  We  married  in  secret, 
like  criminals  in  prison,  without  preparation,  without  confession, 
or  communion,  or  repentance.  We  chose  a  priest  that  was  dis- 

119 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

graced  by  his  bishop  to  give  us  that  great  sacrament,  for  money. 
May  heaven  forgive  him!  how  soon  and  suddenly  he  was  called 
to  judgment  for  that  act!' 

Hardress,  who  had  himself  been  struck  by  the  circumstance  last 
alluded  to,  remained  silent  for  a  moment,  while  his  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  earth. 

'  Why  did  you  go  back  to  the  chapel  that  time,  Eily,'  he  said  at 
length,  '  after  I  parted  from  you  at  the  door?' 

'  Everything  looked  bad  and  disheartening,'  said  the  young 
woman.  '  I  was  just  going  to  lift  the  latch  of  my  father's  door, 
when  I  found  that  I  had  forgot  the  priest's  certificate.  I  went  back 
to  the  chapel  as  fast  as  I  could  walk.  I  passed  through  the  sacristy 
and  into  the  little  room.  The  certificate  was  there  upon  the  table, 
the  candles  were  burning,  and  the  clergyman  was  sitting  upright  in 
his  chair — a  dead  man!  Oh,  I  can  no  more  tell  you  how  I  felt  that 
moment  than  if  I  was  dumb.  I  thought  the  world  was  coming  to  an 
end,  and  that  I  had  no  more  hold  of  life  than  of  the  wind  that  was 
going  by  me.  I  ran  out  into  the  chapel  and  strove  to  pray,  but  my 
blood  was  boiling  out  at  my  fingers'  ends.  While  I  was  on  my  knees 
I  heard  the  people  running  to  and  fro  in  the  sacristy,  and  I  hurried 
out  of  the  chapel  for  fear  I'd  be  questioned.' 

'  And  did  you  go  home  at  once  ? ' 

'  No;  I  took  a  walk  first  to  quiet  my  mind  a  little,  and  when  I  did 
go  home,  I  found  my  father  was  up,  and  getting  the  breakfast  ready 
before  me.  Ah,  he  deserved  a  better  daughter  than  Eily!' 

'  Come,  come!'  said  her  husband  kindly,  '  you  will  be  a  good 
daughter  to  him  yet.' 

'  I  hope  so,  sir,'  said  Eily,  in  a  mournful  voice.  '  There's  one 
thing,  at  all  events.  He  loves  me  very  well,  and  whenever  I  return, 
I  am  sure  of  being  easily  forgiven.' 

'  And  can  you  find  no  encouragement  in  that?'  Hardress  said, 
while  he  took  her  hand  in  his,  and  pressed  it  in  a  soothing  manner. 
'  You  say  that  you  have  confidence  in  me — and  the  few  happy  weeks 
that  we  have  counted  since  our  marriage  have  furnished  me  with  no 
occasion  for  complaint  on  that  subject.  Continue  yet  a  little  longer 
to  trust  in  your  own  Hardress,  and  the  time  will  shortly  come  when 
you  shall  find  that  it  was  not  bestowed  in  vain.  Come,  now,  let  me 
dry  those  sweet  eyes,  while  I  tell  you  shortly  what  my  plans  shall  be. 
You  have  heard  me  speak  of  Danny  Mann's  sister,  Naughten,  who 
lives  on  the  side  of  the  Purple  Mountain,  in  the  Gap  of  Dunlough. 

120 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

(You  don't  know  those  places  now,  but  you'll  be  enchanted  with 
them  by-and-by.)  She  is  a  good-natured  creature,  though  some- 
what violent;  and  is,  moreover,  entirely  at  my  command.  I  have 
had  two  neat  rooms  fitted  up  for  you  in  her  cottage,  where  you  can 
have  some  books  to  read,  and  a  little  garden  to  amuse  you,  and  a 
Kerry  pony  to  ride  over  the  mountains,  and  see  all  that  is  to  be  seen 
about  the  lakes.  In  the  meantime  I  will  steal  a  visit  now  and  then 
to  my  mother,  who  spends  the  autumn  in  the  neighbourhood.  She 
loves  me,  I  know,  as  well  as  I  love  her;  and  that  is  very  well.  I  will 
gradually  let  her  into  my  secret,  and  obtain  her  forgiveness — I  am 
certain  she  will  not  withhold  it — and  my  father's  will  follow  as  a 
matter  of  course,  for  he  has  the  greatest  respect  for  her  opinions.' 
(If  Hardress  had  not  been  Barny  Cregan's  son,  he  would  have  given 
this  respect  another  name.)  '  I  shall  then  present  you  to  my 
mother, — she  will  commend  your  modesty  and  gentleness  to  my 
father,  who  will  rap  out  an  exclamation  on  your  beauty; — we  shall 
send  for  your  father  and  priest  O'Connor  to  the  hauling-home,  and 
then  where  is  the  tongue  that  shall  venture  to  wag  against  the  fame 
of  Eily  Cregan  ?  If  such  a  one  there  be,  it  shall  never  sting  again, 
for  I  will  cut  the  venom  out  of  it  with  my  small-sword.' 

'  Hush!  hush,  sir!  Do  not  speak  so  loud,'  cried  the  young  woman 
in  some  alarm — '  there's  one  asleep  in  the  next  room.' 

'  Who  is  it  ?     Mrs.  Frawley  ? ' 

'  The  fat,  good  old  woman  that  got  dinner  ready  for  me.' 

'  Never  fear  her.  She  is  a  hard-working,  diligent  woman,  that 
always  minds  the  business  she  has  in  hand.  It  was  not  to  lie  awake 
and  make  use  of  her  ears  that  she  got  between  the  blankets.  Hark! 
— There  is  a  clearer  proof  still  that  she  is  asleep.  She  must  be 
dreaming  of  a  hunt,  she  imitates  the  horn  of  chase  so  finely.  Well, 
Eily,  be  ready  to  start  for  Ballybunion  at  sunrise  in  the  morning. 
You  must  contrive  to  slip  down  to  the  shore  without  being  seen  by 
Lowry  or  anybody  else,  if  possible.' 

The  creaking  of  the  bed  which  sustained  the  ponderous  Mrs. 
Frawley  here  startled  the  young  and  passionate,  though  most  ill- 
sorted,  pair.  After  a  hurried  good  night,  Hardress  returned  to  his 
room  just  in  time  to  escape  the  observation  of  the  good  dairy-woman, 
who  had  been  awaked  out  of  a  dream  of  pecks  and  keelers  and  fresh 
prints  by  the  sound  of  voices  in  the  stranger's  room.  On  opening 
the  door,  however,  she  was  a  little  astonished  to  observe  the  lovely 
guest  in  the  attitude  of  devotion.  Deprived  by  this  circumstance 

121 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

of  the  opportunity  of  putting  any  awkward  questions,  Mrs.  Frawley, 
after  yawning  once  or  twice,  and  shaking  her  shoulders  as  often, 
tumbled  into  bed  again,  and  speedily  resumed  the  same  tune  upon 
the  horn  which  had  excited  the  admiration  of  Hardress. 

Reader,  I  desire  you  not  to  think  that  this  speedy  fit  of  devotion 
was  a  manoeuvre  of  the  gentle  Eily.  The  sin,  assuredly,  was  not 
done  with  reflection.  But  if  the  case  appears  suspicious,  go  down 
upon  your  knees  and  pray  that  as  (alas,  the  while!)  it  has  not  been 
the  first,  it  may  be  the  last  instance  in  which  religion  shall  be  made 
subservient  to  human  and  terrestrial  purposes ! 

There  was  a  slight  feeling  of  chagrin  mingled  with  the  happier 
emotions  of  the  young  husband  as  he  prepared  for  slumber.  Gifted 
as  he  was  with  a  quick  perception  and  keen  feeling  of  the  beautiful 
and  worthy,  the  passion  he  had  conceived  for  the  gentle  Eily  had 
been  as  sudden  as  it  was  violent.  The  humility  of  her  origin,  at  a 
period  when  pride  of  birth  was  more  considered  in  matrimonial 
alliances  than  it  is  at  present,  might,  it  is  true,  have  deterred  him 
from  contravening  the  wishes  of  his  friends  if  the  impression  made 
on  his  imagination  had  been  less  powerful;  but  his  extreme  youth, 
and  the  excelling  beauty  of  his  bride,  were  two  circumstances  that 
operated  powerfully  in  tempting  him  to  overlook  all  other  counsels 
than  those  which  love  suggested.  He  thought,  nevertheless,  that 
he  had  acted  towards  Eily  O'Connor  with  a  generosity  which 
approached  a  species  of  magnanimity  in  preferring  her  before  the 
whole  world  and  its  opinions;  and  perhaps,  too,  he  entertained  a 
philosophical  vanity  in  the  conceit  that  he  had  thus  evinced  an  in- 
dependent reliance  on  his  own  mental  resources,  and  shown  a  spirit 
superior  to  the  ordinary  prejudices  of  society.  He  felt,  therefore,  a 
little  chagrined  at  Eily's  apparent  slowness  in  appreciating  so  noble 
an  effort,  for  indeed  she  did  him  the  justice  to  believe  that  it  was  a 
higher  motive  than  the  love  of  self-adulation  which  induced  him  to 
bestow  upon  her  his  hand  and  his  affections.  But  the  reader  is  yet 
only  partially  acquainted  with  the  character  of  Hardress,  and  those 
early  circumstances  which  fashioned  it  to  its  present  state  of  irregular 
and  imperfect  virtue;  we  will,  therefore,  while  that  fiery  heart  lies 
quenched  in  slumber,  employ  those  hours  of  inaction  in  a  brief  and 
comprehensive  view  of  the  natural  qualities  and  acquirements  of  our 
hero. 

While  Hardress  Cregan  was  yet  a  child,  he  displayed  more  symp- 
toms of  precocious  ability  than  might  have  shed  a  lustre  on  the 

122 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

boyhood  of  many  a  celebrated  genius.  He  obtained,  even  in  his 
schooldays,  the  sobriquet  of  'Counsellor,'  from  his  fondness  of 
discussion,  and  the  childish  eloquence  which  he  displayed  in  main- 
taining a  favourite  position.  His  father  liked  him  for  a  certain  des- 
peration of  courage  which  he  was  apt  to  discover  on  occasions  of  very 
inadequate  provocation.  His  mother,  too,  doated  on  him  for  a 
mother's  own,  best  reason — that  he  was  her  child.  Indulgent  she 
was,  even  to  a  ruinous  extent;  and  proud  she  was  when  her  saga- 
cious acquaintances,  after  hearing  her  relate  some  wonderful  piece 
of  wit  in  little  Hardress,  would  compress  their  lips,  shake  their  heads 
with  much  emphasis,  and  prophesy  that '  that  boy  would  shine  one 
day  or  another.'  His  generosity,  too  (a  quality  in  which  Mrs.  Cregan 
was  herself  pre-eminent)  excited  his  mother's  admiration,  and  proved 
indeed  that  Hardress  was  not  an  ordinary  child. 

And  yet  he  was  not  without  the  peculiar  selfishness  of  genius — 
that  selfishness  which  consists  not  in  the  love  of  getting  or  the  love  of 
keeping,  in  cupidity  or  avarice,  but  in  a  luxurious  indulgence  of  all 
one's  natural  inclinations,  even  to  an  effeminate  degree.  His  very 
generosity  was  a  species  of  self-seeking,  of  that  vulgar  quality  which 
looks  to  nothing  more  than  the  gratification  of  a  suddenly  awakened 
impulse  of  compassion,  or,  perhaps,  has  a  still  meaner  object  for  its 
stimulus,  the  gratitude  of  the  assisted,  and  the  fame  of  an  open  hand. 
If  this  failing  were  in  Hardress,  as  in  Charles  Surface,  the  result  of 
habitual  thoughtlessness  and  dissipation,  it  might  challenge  a  gentler 
condemnation,  and  awaken  pity  rather  than  dislike;  but  young 
Cregan  was  by  no  means  incapable  of  appreciating  the  high  merit  of 
a  due  self-government  even  in  the  exercise  of  estimable  dispositions. 
He  admired  in  Kyrle  Daly  that  noble  and  yet  unaffected  firmness  of 
principle  which  led  him,  on  many  occasions,  to  impose  a  harsh  re- 
straint upon  his  own  feelings  when  their  indulgence  was  not  in 
accordance  with  his  notions  of  justice.  But  Hardress  Cregan,  with 
an  imagination  which  partook  much  more  largely  of  the  national 
luxuriance,  and  with  a  mind  which  displayed,  at  intervals,  bursts  of 
energy  which  far  surpassed  the  reach  of  his  steady  friend,  was  yet  the 
less  estimable  character  of  the  two.  They  were,  nevertheless,  well 
calculated  for  a  lasting  friendship;  for  Kyrle  Daly  liked  and  valued 
the  surpassing  talent  of  Hardress,  and  Hardress  was  pleased  with 
the  even  temper  and  easy  resolution  of  his  school-fellow. 

Seldom,  indeed,  it  was  that  esteem  formed  any  portion  in  the 
leading  motive  of  Hardress  Cregan's  attachments.  He  liked  for 

123 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

liking's  sake,  and  as  long  only  as  his  humour  lasted.  It  required  but 
a  spark  to  set  him  all  on  fire,  but  the  flame  was  often  as  prone  to 
smoulder  and  become  extinct  as  it  was  hasty  to  kindle.  The  reader 
is  already  aware  that  he  had  formed  during  his  boyhood  a  passion 
for  Anne  Chute,  who  was  then  a  mere  girl,  and  on  a  visit  to  Dinis 
Cottage.  His  mother,  who  from  his  very  infancy  had  arranged  this 
match  within  her  own  mind,  was  delighted  to  observe  the  early 
attachment  of  the  children,  and  encouraged  it  by  every  means  in  her 
power.  They  studied,  played,  and  walked  together,  and  all  his 
recollections  of  the  magnificent  scenery  of  those  romantic  mountain 
lakes  were  blended  with  the  form,  the  voice,  the  look  and  manner  of 
his  childish  love.  The  long  separation,  however,  which  ensued 
when  he  was  sent  to  school,  and  from  thence  to  college,  produced  a 
total  alteration  in  his  sentiments;  and  the  mortification  which 
his  pride  experienced  on  finding  himself,  as  he  imagined,  utterly 
forgotten  by  her,  completely  banished  even  the  wish  to  renew 
their  old  familiar  life.  Still,  however,  the  feeling  with  which 
he  regarded  her  was  rather  one  of  resentment  than  indifference; 
and  it  was  not  without  a  secret  creeping  of  the  heart,  that  he 
witnessed  what  he  thought  the  successful  progress  of  Kyrle 
Daly's  attachment. 

It  was  under  these  circumstances  that  he  formed  his  present 
hasty  union  with  Eily  O'Connor.  His  love  for  her  was  deep, 
sincere,  and  tender.  Her  entire  and  unbounded  confidence, 
her  extreme  beauty,  her  simplicity  and  timid  deference  to  his 
wishes,  made  a  soothing  compensation  to  his  heart  for  the  cold- 
ness of  the  haughty,  though  superior  beauty,  whose  inconstancy 
had  raised  his  indignation. 

'  Yes,'  said  Hardress  to  himself  as  he  gathered  the  blankets  about 
his  shoulders,  and  disposed  himself  for  sleep, '  her  form  and  disposi- 
tion are  perfect.  Would  that  education  had  been  to  her  as  kind  as 
nature!  Yet  she  does  not  want  grace  nor  talent; — but  that  brogue! 
Well,  well!  the  materials  of  refinement  are  within  and  around  her, 
and  it  must  be  my  task,  and  my  delight,  to  make  the  brilliant  shine 
out  that  is  yet  dark  in  the  ore.  I  fear  Kyrle  Daly  is,  after  all,  correct 
in  saying  that  I  am  not  indifferent  to  those  extemal  allurements.' 
(Here  his  eyelids  dropped.)  '  The  beauties  of  our  mountain  resi- 
dence will  make  a  mighty  alteration  in  her  mind,  and  my  society 
will — will — gradually — beautiful — Anne  Chute — Poll  Naughten — 
independent — ' 

124 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

The  ideas  faded  on  his  imagination,  a  cloud  settled  on  his  brain, 
a  delicious  languor  crept  through  all  his  limbs — he  fell  into  a  pro- 
found repose. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

HOW   THE    FRIENDS    PARTED. 

'  TS  Fighting  Poll  up  yet,  I  wonder?'  said  Lowry  Looby,  as  he 
A  stood  cracking  his  whip  inthe  farm  yard,  while  the  morning 
was  just  beginning  to  break,  and  the  dairy  people  were  tying  down 
the  firkins  on  his  car.  '  I'd  like  to  see  her  before  I'd  go,  to  know 
would  she  have  any  commands  westwards.  There's  no  hoult  upon 
her  to  hinder  her  speaking  of  a  Friday,  whatever.' 

'  Is  who  up  ? '  exclaimed  a  shrill  voice,  which  proceeded  from  the 
grated  windows  of  the  dairy.  It  was  that  of  the  industrious  Mrs. 
Frawley,  who,  as  early,  if  not  as  brisk  and  sprightly  as  the  lark,  was 
already  employed  in  setting  her  milk  in  the  keelers. 

'  Fighting  Poll  of  the  Reeks,'  replied  Lowry,  turning  towards  the 
wire  grating,  through  which  he  beheld  the  extensive  figure  of  the 
dairy-woman,  as  neat  as  a  bride,  employed  in  her  health-giving, 
life-prolonging  avocations. 

'  Who  is  she,  why  ? '  said  Mrs.  Frawley. 

'  Don't  you  know  the  girl  that  come  in  the  boat  with  Misther 
Cregan,  and  slep'  in  the  room  outside  you?' 

'  Oyeh!  I  didn't  know  who  you  meant.  The  boatman's  hand- 
some little  sister  ? ' 

'  Handsome,  ayeh  ? ' 

'  Yes,  then,  handsome.  She  has  the  dawniest  little  nose  I  think 
I  ever  laid  my  two  eyes  on.' 

'  Why  then,  'tis  a  new  story  with  it  for  a  nose.  Formerly,  when  I 
knew  it,  it  was  more  like  a  button  musharoon  than  anything  else, 
and  the  colour  of  a  boiled  carrot.  Good  raison  it  had  for  that,  as 
the  publicans  could  tell  you.' 

1  Hold  your  tongue,  man.    Is  it  to  drink  you  say  she  used?' 

'  A  thrifle,  I'm  tould.' 

*  E'  then,  I  never  see  one  that  has  less  the  sign  of  it  than  what  she 
has.' 

'  She's  altered  lately,  Danny  Mann  tells  me.     Nelly,  eroo,'  he 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

added,  changing  his  tone,  'Sonuher*  to  you,  now,  and  get  me  a 
dram,  for  it's  threatening  to  be  a  moist,  foggy  mornen',  an'  I  have 
a  long  road  before  me.' 

Nelly  was  occupied  in  liberating  a  whole  regiment  of  ducks,  hens, 
pouts,  chicks,  cocks,  geese,  and  turkeys,  who  all  came  quacking, 
clucking,  whistling,  chirping,  crowing,  cackling,  and  gobbling, 
through  the  open  fowl-house  door  into  the  yard;  where  they  re- 
mained shaking  their  wings  on  tiptoe,  stretching  their  long  necks 
over  the  little  pool,  the  surface  of  which  was  green  and  covered  with 
feathers,  appearing  to  congratulate  each  other  on  their  sudden  liber- 
ation, and  seeming  evidently  disposed  to  keep  all  the  conversation  to 
themselves. 

'  What  is  it  you  say,  Lowry?  Choke  ye,  for  ducks,  will  ye  let 
nobody  spake  but  ye'rselves?  What  is  it,  Lowry?' 

Lowry  repeated  his  request,  making  it  more  intelligible  amid  the 
clamour  of  the  farmyard  by  using  a  significant  gesture.  He  imi- 
tated the  action  of  one  who  fills  a  glass  and  drinks  it.  He  then  laid 
his  hand  upon  his  heart  and  shook  his  head,  as  if  to  intimate  the 
comfort  that  would  be  produced  about  that  region  by  performing  in 
reality  what  he  only  mocked  at  present. 

Nelly  understood  him  as  well  as  if  he  had  spoken  volumes.  Com- 
missioned by  Mrs.  Frawley,  she  supplied  him  with  a  bottle  of  spirits 
and  a  glass,  with  the  use  of  which,  let  us  do  Lowry  the  justice  to  say, 
there  was  not  a  man  in  the  barony  better  acquainted. 

While  he  dashed  from  his  eyes  the  tears  which  were  produced  by 
the  sharpness  of  the  stimulus,  he  heard  footsteps  behind  him,  and 
looking  round,  beheld  Danny  the  Lord,  and  the  soidisant  Mrs. 
Naughten,  still  muffled  in  her  blue  cloak  and  hood,  and  occupying  a 
retired  position  near  the  kitchen  door. 

'  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  Nelly,'  said  Lowry  with  a  knowing  wink  to 
the  soubrette,  '  Poll  Naughten  lives  very  convanient  on  the  Cork 
road,  or  not  far  from  it,  an'  I  do  be  often  goen'  that  way  of  a  lone- 
some night.  I'll  make  a  friend  o'  Poll  before  she  leaves  this,  so  as 
that  she'll  be  glad  to  see  me  another  time.  I'll  go  over  an'  offer  her 
a  dhram.  That  I  may  be  blest,  but  I  will.' 

So  saying,  and  hiding  the  bottle  and  glass  under  the  skirt  of  his 
coat,  he  moved  towards  the  formidable  heroine  of  the  moun- 
tains with  many  respectful  bows  and  a  smile  of  the  most  winning 
cordiality. 

*  A  good  husband. 

126 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'A  fine  moist  mornen',  Mrs.  Naughten.  I  hope  you  feel  no 
fatague  after  the  night,  ma'am.  Your  sarvant,  Misther  Mann.  I 
hope  you  didn't  feel  us  in  the  yard,  ma'am.  I  sthrove  to  keep 
'em  quiet  o'  purpose.  'Tisn't  goen'  ye  are  so  airly,  Misther 
Mann  ? ' 

Danny,  who  felt  all  the  importance  of  diverting  Lowry  Looby's 
attention  from  his  fair  charge,  could. find  no  means  so  effectual  as 
that  of  acknowledging  the  existence  of  a  mystery,  and  admitting  him 
into  a  pretended  confidence.  Advancing,  therefore,  a  few  steps  to 
meet  him,  he  put  on  a  most  serious  countenance,  and  laid  his  finger 
warily  along  his  nose. 

'  What's  the  matther?'  whispered  Lowry,  bending  down  in  the 
eagerness  of  curiosity. 

Danny  the  Lord  repeated  the  action  with  the  addition  of  a 
cautionary  frown. 

'  Can't  she  talk  of  a  Friday  either?'  said  Lowry,  much  amazed. 
*  I  understand,  Misther  Mann.  Trust  me  for  the  bare  life.  A  nod 
is  as  good  as  a  wink  to  a  blind  horse.' 

'  Or  ass  eider,'  muttered  the  hunchback  as  he  turned  away. 

'  But,  Misther  Mann ! '  cried  Lowry,  laying  his  immense  claw  upon 
his  lordship's  shoulder.  '  Listen  hether.  The  mornen'  will  be 
smart  enough,  and  maybe  I'd  betther  offer  her  a  dhram,  and  she 
goen'  upon  the  wather?' 

He  strode  past  the  lord  and  was  close  to  the  muffled  fair  one,  when 
Danny  pulled  him  back  by  the  skirt. 

'  Didn't  I  tell  you  before,'  said  he, '  dat  Poll  never  drank?' 

'  'Iss,  of  a  Thursday  you  said.' 

'  Or  a  Friday,  or  any  day.     Oh  den,  oh  den,  Lowry!' 

'  Well,  I  meant  no  harm.  Maybe  you'd  have  no  vow  yourself  on 
the  head  of  it  any  way,  sir  ? '  And  he  displayed  the  bottle. 

'  Dere  are  tree  kinds  of  oats,  Lowry,'  responded  Danny  Mann,  as 
he  twined  his  bony  fingers  fondly  around  the  neck  of  the  bottle; 
'dere  are  tree  kinds  of  oats  dat  are  forbidden  to  be  tuk  as  unlawful. 
Dey  are  false  oats,  rash  oats,  and  unjust  oats.  Now  do  you  see  me, 
Lowry,'  he  continued,  as  he  filled  his  glass — '  if  I  made  a  vow  o'  dat 
kind,  it  would  be  an  unjust  oat,  for  it  would  be  traten'  myself 
very  bad,  a  poor  boy  dat's  night  and  day  at  sech  cold  work  as 
mine;  an'  it  would  be  a  rash  oat,  Lowry,  for — '  (here  he  tossed 
off  the  spirits)  '  I'm  blest  but  it  wouldn't  be  long  before  I'd 
make  it  a  false  oat.' 

127 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

Lowry  was  greatly  shocked  at  this  unprincipled  speech.  '  That's 
a  nate  youth,'  he  said  privately  to  Nelly.  '  That's  a  nice  poet,  not 
judging  him.  If  that  lad  doesn't  see  the  inside  of  the  stone  jug  *  for 
some  bad  business  one  time  or  another,  I'll  give  you  lave  to  say  black 
is  the  white  o'  my  eye.  If  the  gallows  isn't  wrote  upon  his  face, 
there's  no  mait  in  mutton.  Well,  good  mornen'  to  you,  Nelly,  I 
see  my  load  is  ready.  I  have  everything  now,  I  suppose,  Mrs. 
Frawley.  Whup,  get  up  here,  you  old  garron!  Good  mornen'  to 
you,  Mrs.  Naughten,  an'  a  fair  wind  after  you.  Good  mornen', 
Misther  Mann.'  He  cracked  his  whip,  tucked  the  skirt  of  his  riding 
coat  under  his  arm,  as  usual,  threw  his  little  head  back,  and  followed 
the  car  out  of  the  yard,  singing  in  a  pleasant,  contented  key: — 

'  Don't  you  remember  the  time  1  gave  you  my  heart  •: 
You  solemnly  swore  from  me  you  never  would  part. 

But  your  mind's  like  the  ocean, 
Each  notion 

Has  now  taken  flight, 
And  left  me  bemoaning  the  loss  of  the  red-haired  man's  wife.5 

Kyrle  Daly  and  his  young  friend  were  meanwhile  exchanging  a 
farewell  upon  the  little  gravel  plot  before  the  front  door. 

'  Come,  come,  go  in  out  of  the  air,'  said  Hardress;  '  you  shall  not 
come  down  to  the  shore  in  that  slight  dress.  Remember  what  I 
have  told  you,  and  sustain  your  spirits.  Before  another  month  shall 
pass  I  pledge  myself  to  become  master,  for  your  sake,  of  Anne 
Chute's  secret.' 

'And  to  honour  it?'  said  Kyrle,  smiling  as  he  gave  him  his 
hand. 

'  According  to  its  value,'  replied  Hardress,  tossing  his  head. 
*  Good-bye;  I  see  Danny  Mann  and  his  sister  coming  round,  and 
we  must  not  lose  the  morning's  tide.' 

They  shook  hands  and  parted. 

It  was  one  of  those  still  and  heavy  mornings  which  are  peculiar 
to  the  close  of  summer  in  this  climate.  The  surface  of  the  waters 
was  perfectly  still,  and  a  light  wreath  of  mist  steamed  upward  from 
the  centre  of  the  channel,  so  as  to  veil  from  their  sight  the  opposite 
shores  of  Clare.  This  mist  ere  long  became  a  dense  and  blinding 
fog,  that  lasted  until  noon,  and,  together  with  the  breathless  calm 
that  lay  upon  the  land  and  water,  prevented  their  reaching  Bally- 

*  The  goal. 

128 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

bunion  until  sunset.  In  one  of  those  caverns  which  are  hollowed 
out  of  the  cliffs  on  the  shore,  the  traveller  may  discern  the  remains 
of  an  artificial  chamber.  It  was  used  at  the  period  of  which  we 
write  as  a  kind  of  wareroom  for  contraband  goods — a  species  of 
traffic  which  was  freely  engaged  in  by  nearly  all  the  middling  gentry 
and  small  farmers  along  the  coast.  A  subterraneous  passage,  faced 
with  dry  stone-work,  opened  into  the  interior  of  the  country;  and 
the  chamber  itself,  from  constant  use,  was  become  perfectly  dry  and 
habitable.  In  this  place  Hardress  proposed  to  Eily  that  they  should 
remain  and  take  some  refreshment,  while  Danny  the  Lord  was 
despatched  to  secure  a  better  lodging  for  the  night  at  some  retired 
farmhouse  in  the  neighbourhood. 

A  small  canvas-built  canoe,  summoned  from  the  interior  of  the 
cave  by  a  whistle  from  the  lord,  was  employed  to  convey  them  from 
the  pleasure-boat  into  the  gloomy  porch  of  this  natural  souterrain. 
Before  the  fragile  skiff  had  glided  into  the  darkness,  Eily  turned  her 
head  to  catch  a  parting  look  of  the  descending  sun.  The  scene 
which  met  her  gaze  would  have  appeared  striking  even  to  an  ac- 
customed eye;  and  to  one  like  hers,  acquainted  only  with  the  smoky 
splendour  of  a  city  sunset,  it  was  grand  and  imposing  in  the  extreme. 
Before  her  lay  the  gigantic  portals  of  the  Shannon,  through  which 
the  mighty  river  glided  forth  with  a  majestic  calmness,  to  mingle 
with  the  wide  and  waveless  ocean  that  spread  beyond  and  around 
them.  On  her  right  arose  the  clifted  shores  of  Clare,  over 
which  the  broad  ball  of  day,  although  some  minutes  hidden 
from  her  sight,  seemed  yet,  by  refraction,  to  hold  his  golden 
circlet  suspended  amid  a  broken  and  brilliant  mass  of  vapours. 
Eily  kept  her  eyes  fixed  in  admiration  on  the  dilated  orb, 
until  a  turn  in  the  cave  concealed  the  opening  from  her  view, 
and  she  could  only  see  the  stream  of  light  behind  as  it  struck 
on  the  jagged  and  broken  walls  of  the  orifice,  and  danced  upon 
the  surface  of  the  agitated  waters. 

The  place  to  her  seemed  terrible.  The  hollow  sound  of  the  boat- 
man's voice,  the  loud  plash  of  the  oars,  and  the  rippling  of  the  water 
against  the  vessel's  prow,  reverberating  through  the  vaulted  cham- 
bers; the  impenetrable  darkness  into  which  they  seemed  to  plunge 
headlong,  and  reckless  of  danger  or  impediment;  all  united,  consti- 
tuted a  scene  so  new  to  the  simple  Eily,  that  she  grasped  close  the 
arm  of  her  husband,  and  held  her  breath  for  some  moments,  as  if  in 
expectation  of  some  sudden  and  terrific  encounter.  In  a  little  time 

129 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

the  boatman  rested  on  his  oars,  and  a  voice  from  the  interior  of  the 
cave  was  heard  exclaiming  in  Irish, '  Is  it  himself?' 

'  It  is,'  said  the  boatman  in  the  same  language.  '  Light  up  the 
fire  at  once,  and  put  down  a  few  of  the  fresh  herrings.  The  lady  is 
hungry.' 

'  You  will  join  us  for  the  first  time,  Eily,'  said  Hardress, '  in  a 
fisherman's  supper.  Well,  Larry,  had  you  much  luck  last  night  ? ' 

'  Poor  enough  masther,'  said  the  same  oracular  voice,  which  Eily 
now  recognized  as  that  of  the  man  to  whose  escort  she  had  been 
entrusted  by  Lowry  Looby  on  the  previous  evening.  '  We  left 
Misther  Daly's  point  as  soon  as  ever  the  wind  fell,  and  come  down 
as  far  as  Kilcordane,  thinking  we  might  come  across  the  scull;  but, 
though  we  were  out  all  night,  we  took  only  five  hundhert,  more  or 
less.  A' why  don't  you  light  up  the  fire,  Phaudhrig  ?  And 'twasn't 
that  the  herrings  didn't  come  into  the  river  either,  for  when  the  moon 
shone  out  we  saw  the  scull  to  the  westward,  making  a  curl  on  the 
waters,  as  close  an'  thick  as  if  you  threw  a  shovelful  o'  gravel  in  a 
pond.' 

The  fire  now  blazed  suddenly  upward,  revealing  the  interior  of  the 
apartment  before  alluded  to,  and  the  figure  of  the  rough  old  boatman 
and  his  boy.  The  latter  was  stooping  forward  on  his  hands  and 
kindling  the  fire  with  his  breath,  while  Larry  Kett  himself  was 
rinsing  a  small  metal  pot  at  the  waterside.  The  effect  of  the  smoky 
and  subterraneous  light  upon  those  uncouth  and  grisly  figures,  and 
on  the  rude  excavation  itself,  impressed  the  timid  Eily  with  a  new 
and  agitating  sensation,  too  nearly  allied  to  fear  to  leave  her  mind  at 
ease. 

In  a  few  minutes  she  was  seated  on  a  small  keg  near  the  fire,  while 
Hardress  hurried  the  men  who  were  preparing  dinner.  Larry  Kett 
was  not  so  proficient  in  the  science  of  gastronomy  as  the  celebrated 
Louis  of  Crockford's,  and  yet  it  is  to  be  questioned  whether  the 
culinary  preparations  of  the  latter  were  ever  despatched  with  more 
eagerness  and  satisfaction.  Eily,  indeed,  ate  only  a  heroine's  pro- 
portion; but  she  wondered  at  the  voracity  of  the  boatmen,  one  of 
whom,  placing  a  raw  onion  on  an  unpeeled  potato,  swallowed  both 
at  a  mouthful,  almost  without  employing  a  single  masticatory 
action. 

Danny  Mann  in  the  meantime  was  occupied  in  procuring  a  more 
eligible  lodging  for  the  night.  He  returned  when  they  had  con- 
cluded their  unceremonious  meal,  to  say  that  he  had  been  successful 

130 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

in  procuring  two  rooms  in  the  house  of  '  a  little  'oman  dat  kep  a 
private  bottle  between  dat  an'  Beale.' 

'  A  private  bottle  ? '  exclaimed  Hardress;  '  what  do  you  mean  by  a 
private  bottle?' 

'  I  mean,'  replied  the  little  lord, '  dat  she  sells  as  good  a  drop  as  if 
she  paid  license  for  it;  a  ting  she  never  was  fool  enough  to  do.' 

'  Where  does  she  live  ? ' 

*  Close  to  de  road  above.     She  told  me '  (here  he  drew  Hardress 
aside)  '  when  I  axed  her,  dat  Myles  of  de  ponies,  and  de  master, 
an'  a  deal  o'  gentlemen  went  de  road  westwards  yesterday,  an'  dat 
Phil  Naughten  (Poll's  Phil)  was  in  Beale  waiten'  for  you  dese 
two  days  wit  de  horse  an'  jauntin'  car.' 

'  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  Step  over  there  to-night,  and  tell  him  to  be 
at  the  door  before  daybreak  to-morrow  morning.  Tell  him  I  will 
double  his  fare  if  he  uses  diligence.' 

*  Why  din,  indeed,'  said  Danny,  '  I'll  tell  him  notin'  o'  de  sort. 
'Twould  be  the  same  case  wit  him  still,  for  he's  a  boy  dat  if  you  gave 
him  England,  Ireland,  an'  Scotland  for  an  estate,  he'd  ax  de  Isle  o' 
Man  for  a  kitchen-garden.' 

'  Well,  well,  do  as  you  please  about  it,  Danny,  but  have  him  on  the 
spot.  That  fellow,'  he  continued,  speaking  to  Eily  as  he  conducted 
her  out  of  the  cavern, '  that  fellow  is  so  impudent  sometimes,  that 
nothing  but  the  recollection  of  his  fidelity  and  the  honesty  of  his 
motive  keeps  my  hand  at  rest.  He  is  my  foster-brother,  and,  you 
may  perceive,  with  the  exception  of  one  deformity,  a  well-looking 
man.' 

*  I  never  observed  anything  but  the  hunch,'  said  Eily. 

*  For  which,'  added  Hardress,  with  a  slight  change  in  his  counte- 
nance, 'he  has  to  thank  his  master.' 

'You,  Mr.  Hardress!' 

'  Even  so,  Eily.  When  we  were  both  children,  that  young  fellow 
was  my  constant  companion.  Familiarity  produced  a  feeling  of 
equality,  on  which  he  presumed  so  far  as  to  offer  a  rudeness  to  a  little 
relative  of  mine,  a  Miss  Chute,  who  was  on  a  visit  at  my  mother's. 
She  complained  to  me,  and  my  vengeance  was  summary.  I  met 
him  at  the  head  of  the  kitchen-stairs,  and  without  even  the  ceremony 
of  a  single  question,  or  preparatory  speech,  I  seized  him  by  the  collar 
and  hurled  him  with  desperate  force  to  the  bottom  of  the  flight.  He 
was  unable  to  rise  as  soon  as  I  expected,  and  on  examination  it  was 
discovered  that  an  injury  had  been  done  to  the  spine,  which,  not- 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

withstanding  all  the  exertions  that  were  employed  to  repair  it,  had 
its  result  in  its  present  deformity. 

*  It  was  shocking,'  said  Eily,  with  much  simplicity  of  feeling. 
'  No  wonder  you  should  be  kind  to  him.' 

'  If  I  were  a  mere  block,'  said  Hardress,  '  I  could  not  but  be 
affected  by  the  good-nature  and  kindly  feeling  which  the  poor 
fellow  showed  on  the  occasion,  and  indeed  down  to  the  present 
moment.  It  seemed  to  be  the  sole  aim  and  study  of  his  life  to  satisfy 
me  that  he  entertained  not  even  a  sentiment  of  regret  for  what  had 
happened;  and  his  attachment  ever  since  has  been  the  attachment 
of  a  zealot.  I  know  he  cannot  but  feel  that  his  own  prospects  in  life 
have  been  made  dark  and  lonely  by  that  accident;  and  yet  he  is 
congratulating  himself  whenever  an  opportunity  occurs,  on  his  good 
fortune  in  being  provided  with  a  constant  service,  as  if  (poor  fellow!) 
that  were  any  compensation  to  him.  I  have  been  alarmed  to  observe 
that  he  sometimes  attaches  a  profane  importance  to  his  master's 
wishes,  and  seems  to  care  but  little  what  laws  he  may  transgress 
when  his  object  is  the  gratification  of  my  inclinations.  I  say,  I  am 
alarmed  on  this  subject,  because  I  have  taken  frequent  occasion  to 
remark  that  this  injury  to  his  spine  has  in  some  degree  affected  his 
head,  and  left  him  less  able  to  discern  the  impropriety  of  such  a  line 
of  conduct  than  people  of  sounder  minds.' 


CHAPTER  XVII 

HOW  HARDRESS  LEARNED  A  LITTLE  SECRET  FROM  A  DYING 
HUNTSMAN 

XTOTWITHSTANDING  the  message  which  Hardress  Cregan 
X^l  sent  by  Lowry  Looby,  it  was  more  than  a  week  before  he 
visited  his  parents  at  their  Killarney  residence.  Several  days  were 
occupied  in  seeing  Eily  pleasantly  settled  in  her  wild  cottage  in  the 
Gap,  and  a  still  greater  number  in  enjoying  with  her  the  pleasures 
of  an  autumnal  sojourn  amid  those  scenes  of  mystery,  enchantment 
and  romance.  To  a  mind  that  is  perfectly  at  freedom,  Killarney 
forms  in  itself  a  congeries  of  Elysian  raptures;  but  to  a  fond  bride 
and  bridegroom! — the  heaven,  to  which  its  mountains  rear  their 
naked  heads  in  awful  reverence,  alone  can  furnish  a  superior 
happiness, 

132 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

After  taking  an  affectionate  leave  of  his  beautiful  wife,  and  assur- 
ing her  that  his  absence  should  not  be  extended  beyond  the  following 
day,  Hardress  Cregan  mounted  one  of  Phil  Naughten's  rough- 
coated  ponies,  and  set  off  for  Dinis  Cottage.  It  was  not  situated 
(as  its  name  might  seem  to  import)  on  the  sweet  little  island  which 
is  so  called,  but  far  apart,  near  the  ruined  church  of  Aghadoe,  com- 
manding a  distant  view  of  the  lower  lake  and  the  lofty  and  wooded 
Toomies. 

The  sun  had  gone  down  before  he  left  the  wild  and  rocky  glen  in 
which  was  situated  the  cottage  of  his  bride.  It  was,  as  we  have 
already  apprised  the  reader,  the  first  time  Hardress  had  visited  the 
Lakes  since  his  return  from  college,  and  the  scenery  now,  to  his 
matured  and  well-regulated  taste,  had  not  only  the  effect  of  novelty, 
but  it  was  likewise  invested  with  the  hallowing  and  romantic  charm 
of  youthful  association.  The  stillness,  so  characteristic  of  majesty, 
which  reigned  throughout  the  gigantic  labyrinth  of  mountain,  cliff, 
and  valley  through  which  he  rode;  the  parting  gleam  of  sunshine 
that  brightened  the  ever-moving  mists  on  the  summit  of  the  lofty 
peaks  by  which  he  was  surrounded;  the  solitary  appearance  of  the 
many  nameless  lakes  that  slept  in  black  repose  in  the  centre  of  the 
mighty  chasm;  the  echo  of  his  horse's  hoofs  against  the  stony  road; 
the  voice  of  a  goatherd's  boy,  as  he  drove  homeward  from  the  summit 
of  a  heath-clad  mountain,  his  troublesome  and  adventurous  charge; 
the  lonely  twitter  of  the  kirkeen  dhra,  or  little  water-hen,  as  it  flew 
from  rock  to  rock  on  the  margin  of  the  broken  stream — these,  and 
other  long-forgotten  sights  and  sounds,  awakened  at  the  same  instant 
the  consciousness  of  present  and  the  memory  of  past  enjoyments; 
and  gradually  lifted  his  thoughts  to  that  condition  of  calm  enthu- 
siasm and  fullness  of  soul  which  constitutes  one  of  the  highest 
pleasures  of  a  meditative  mind.  He  did  not  fail  to  recall  at  this 
moment  the  memory  of  his  childish  attachment,  and  could  not  avoid 
a  feeling  of  regret  at  the  unpleasing  change  that  education  had  pro- 
duced in  the  character  of  his  first,  though  not  his  dearest,  love. 

This  feeling  became  still  more  deep  and  oppressive  as  he  ap- 
proached the  cottage  of  his  father.  Every  object  that  he  beheld,  the 
lawn,  the  grove,  the  stream,  the  hedge,  the  stile — all  brought  to 
mind  some  sweet  remembrance  of  his  boyhood.  The  childish  form 
of  Anne  Chute  still  seemed  to  meet  him  with  her  bright  and  careless 
smile  at  every  turn  in  the  path;  or  to  fly  before  him  over  the  shorn 
meadow  as  of  old;  while  the  wild  and  merry  peal  of  infant  laughter 

J33 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

seemed  still  to  ring  upon  his  hearing.  '  Dear  little  being!'  he  ex- 
claimed, as  he  rode  into  the  cottage  avenue.  '  The  burning  springs 
of  Gluver,  I  thought,  might  sooner  have  been  frozen,  than  the  current 
of  that  once  warm  and  kindly  heart;  but  like  those  burning  springs, 
it  is  only  in  the  season  of  coldness  and  neglect  that  fountain  can 
resume  its  native  warmth.  It  is  the  fervour  of  universal  homage 
and  adulation  that  strikes  it  cold  and  pulseless  in  its  channels.' 

The  window  of  the  dining-parlour  alone  was  lighted  up,  and 
Hardress  was  informed,  in  answer  to  his  inquiries,  that  the  ladies, 
Mrs.  Cregan  and  Miss  Chute,  were  gone  to  a  grand  ball  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. Mr.  Cregan,  with  two  other  gentlemen,  was  drinking 
in  the  dining-room;  and,  as  he  might  gather  from  the  tumultuous 
nature  of  the  conversation,  and  the  occasional  shouts  of  ecstatic 
enjoyment,  and  bursts  of  laughter  which  rang  through  the  house, 
already  pretty  far  advanced  in  the  bacchanalian  ceremonies  of  the 
night.  The  voices  he  recognized,  besides  his  father's,  were  those 
of  Hepton  Connolly,  and  Mr.  Creagh,  the  duellist. 

Feeling  no  inclination  to  join  the  revellers,  Hardress  ordered 
candles  in  the  drawing-room,  and  prepared  to  spend  a  quiet  evening 
by  himself.  He  had  scarcely,  however,  taken  his  seat  on  the  straight- 
backed  sofa,  when  his  retirement  was  invaded  by  old  Nancy,  the 
kitchen-maid,  who  came  to  tell  him  that  poor  Dalton  the  huntsman 
was '  a'most  off,'  in  the  little  green-room,  and  that  when  he  heard  Mr. 
Hardress  had  arrived,  he  begged  of  all  things  to  see  him  before  he'd 
go.  '  He  never  was  himself  rightly,  a'ra  gal,'  said  old  Nancy,  wiping 
a  tear  from  the  corner  of  her  eye, '  since  the  masther  sold  the  hounds 
and  tuk  to  the  cock-fighting.' 

Hardress  started  up  and  followed  her.  'Poor  fellow!'  he  ex- 
claimed as  he  went  along;  '  poor  Dalton!  And  is  that  breath  that 
wound  so  many  merry  blasts  upon  the  mountain,  so  soon  to  be  ex- 
tinguished ?  I  remember  the  time,  when  I  thought  a  monarch  upon 
his  throne  a  less  enviable  being  than  our  stout  huntsman,  seated  on 
his  keen-eyed  steed,  in  his  scarlet  frock  and  cap,  with  his  hounds, 
like  painted  courtiers,  thronging  and  baying  round  his  horse's  hoofs, 
and  his  horn  hanging  silent  at  his  waist!  Poor  fellow!  Every 
.beagle  in  the  pack  was  his  familiar  acquaintance,  and  was  as  jealous 
of  his  chirp  or  his  whistle,  as  my  cousin  Anne's  admirers  might  be  of 
a  smile  or  secret  whisper!  How  often  has  he  carried  me  before  him 
on  his  saddle-bow,  and  taught  me  the  true  fox-hunting  cry!  How 
often  at  evening  has  he  held  me  between  his  knees,  and  excited  my 

134 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

young  ambition  with  tales  of  hunts  hard  run,  and  neck-or-nothing 
leaps;  of  double  ditches,  cleared  by  an  almost  miraculous  dexterity; 
of  drawing,  yearning,  challenging,  hunting  mute,  hunting  change, 
and  hunting  counter!  And  now  the  poor  fellow  must  wind  .his  last 
recheat,  and  carry  his  own  old  bones  to  earth  at  length  !  —  never  again 
to  awaken  the  echoes  of  the  mountain  lakes  —  never  again  beneath 
the  shadow  of  those  immemorial  woods  that  clothe  their  lofty 
shores  — 


ciere  viros,  Martemque  accendere  cantu!" 

The  fox  may  come  from  kennel,  and  the  red  deer  slumber  on  his 
lair,  for  their  mighty  enemy  is  now  himself  at  bay.' 

While  these  reflections  passed  through  the  mind  of  Hardress,  old 
Nancy  conducted  him  as  far  as  the  door  of  the  huntsman's  room, 
where  he  paused  for  a  moment  on  hearing  the  voice  of  one  singing 
inside.  It  was  that  of  the  wornout  huntsman  himself,  who  was 
humming  over  a  few  verses  of  a  favourite  ballad.  The  lines  which 
caught  the  ear  of  Hardress  were  the  following: 

'Ah,  huntsman  dear,  I'll  be  your  friend, 

If  you  let  me  go  till  morning; 
Don't  call  your  hounds  for  one  half-hour, 

Nor  neither  sound  your  horn; 
For  indeed  I'm  tired  from  yesterday's  hunt, 

I  can  neither  run  nor  walk  well, 
Mill  I  go  to  Rock  hill  amongst  my  friends, 
Where  I  was  bred  and  born. 
Tally  ho  the  fox! 
Tally  ho  the  fox! 
Tally  ho  the  fox,  a  collauneen, 
Tally  ho  the  fox 
Over  hills  and  rocks, 
And  chase  him  on  till  morning.! 

'  He  cannot  be  so  very  ill,'  said  Hardress,  looking  at  the  old 
woman,  '  when  his  spirits  will  permit  him  to  sing  so  merrily.' 

'  Oyeh,  heaven  help  you,  agra!'  replied  Nancy,  '  I  believe  if  he 
was  at  death's  doore  this  moment,  he'd  have  that  song  on  his  tongue 
still.' 

'  Hush!  hush!'  said  Hardress,  raising  his  hand,  '  he  is  beginning 
again.' 

The  ballad  was  taken  up,  after  a  heavy  fit  of  coughing,  in  the  same 
strain: 

'I  locked  him  up  an'  I  fed  him  well, 

An'  I  gave  him  victuals  of  all  kinds; 
But  I  declare  to  you,  sir,  when  he  got  loose, 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

He  ate  a  fat  goose  in  the  morning. 
So  now  kneel  down  an'  say  your  prayers, 

For  you'll  surely  die  this  morning. 
"Ah,  sir,"  says  the  fox,  "I  never  pray. 
For  my  father  he  bred  me  a  quaker." 
Tally  ho  the  fox! 
Tally  ho  the : 

Hardress  here  opened  the  door  and  cut  short  the  refrain. 

The  huntsman  turned  his  face  to  the  door  as  he  heard  the  handle 
turn.  It  was  that  of  a  middle-aged  man  in  the  very  last  stage  of 
pulmonary  consumption.  A  red  nightcap  was  pushed  back  from 
his  wasted  and  sunken  temples,  and  a  flush  like  the  bloom  of  a 
withered  pippin  played  in  the  hollow  of  his  fleshless  cheek. 

'  Cead  millia  fealtha!  My  heart  warms  to  see  you,  my  own 
Masther  Hardress,'  exclaimed  the  huntsman,  reaching  him  a  skele- 
ton hand  from  beneath  the  brown  quilt. '  I  can  die  in  pace  now,  as  I 
see  you  again  in  health.  These  ten  days  back  they're  telling  me 
you're  coming,  an'  coming,  an'  coming,  until  I  began  to  think  at  last 
that  you  wouldn't  come  until  I  was  gone.' 

'  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  in  this  condition,  Dalton.  How  did  you 
get  the  attack  ? ' 

'  Out  of  a  could  I  think  I  got  it  first,  sir.  When  the  masther  sold 
the  hounds — (Ah,  Masther  Hardress!  to  think  of  his  parting  them 
dogs  and  giving  up  that  fine,  manly  exercise,  for  a  paltry  parcel  o' 
cocks  an'  hens!) — but  when  he  sold  them  an'  took  to  the  cock-fight- 
ing, my  heart  felt  as  low  an'  as  lonesome  as  if  I  lost  all  belonging  to 
me!  To  please  the  masther,  I  turned  my  hand  to  the  cocks,  an' 
used  to  go  every  morning  to  the  hounds'  kennel,  where  the  birds  were 
kept,  to  give  'em  food  an'  water;  but  I  could  never  warm  to  the 
birds.  Ah,  what  is  a  cock-fight,  Masther  Hardress,  in  comparison 
of  a  well-rode  hunt  among  the  mountains,  with  your  horse  flying 
under  you  like  a  fairy,  and  the  cry  o'  the  hounds  like  an  organ  out 
before  you,  and  the  ground  fleeting  like  a  dream  on  all  sides  o'  you, 
an' — ah!  what's  the  use  o'  talking?'  Here  he  lay  back  on  his 
pillow  with  a  look  of  sudden  pain  and  sorrow  that  cut  Hardress  to 
the  heart. 

After  a  few  moments,  he  again  turned  a  ghastly  eye  on  Hardress, 
and  said  in  a  faint  voice, '  I  used  to  go  down  by  the  lake  in  the  even- 
ing to  hear  the  stags  belling  in  the  wood;  and  in  the  morning  I'd  be 
up  with  the  first  light,  to  blow  a  call  on  the  top  o'  the  hill  as  I  used  to 
do,  to  comfort  the  dogs;  and  then  I'd  miss  their  cry,  an'  I'd  stop 

136 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

listenin'  to  the  aychoes  o'  the  horn  among  the  mountains,  till  my 
heart  would  sink  as  low  as  my  ould  boots.  And  bad  boots  they  wor 
too,  signs  on,  I  got  wet  in  'em;  and  themselves,  and  the  could  morn- 
ing air,  and  the  want  o'  the  horse  exercise,  I  believe,  an'  everything, 
brought  on  this  fit.  Is  the  misthriss  at  home,  sir?'  he  added,  after 
struggling  through  a  severe  fit  of  oppression. 

'  No,  she  is  at  a  ball,  with  Miss  Chute.' 

'  Good  look  to  them  both,  wherever  they  are.  That's  the  way  o' 
the  world.  Some  in  health,  an'  some  in  sickness,  some  dancin',  and 
more  dyin'.' 

Here  he  raised  himself  on  his  elbow,  and  after  casting  a  haggard 
glance  around,  as  if  to  be  assured  that  what  he  had  to  say  could  not 
be  overheard,  he  leaned  forward  toward  Hardress,  and  whispered: 
'  I  know  one  in  this  house,  Masther  Hardress,  that  loves  you  well.' 

The  young  gentleman  looked  a  little  surprised. 

'  Indeed  I  do,'  continued  the  dying  huntsman,  '  one  too,  that  de- 
serves a  better  fortune  than  to  love  any  one  without  a  return.  One 
that  was  kind  to  me  in  my  sickness,  and  that  I'd  like  to  see  happy 
before  I'd  leave  the  world,  if  it  was  heaven's  will.' 

During  this  conversation,  both  speakers  had  been  frequently 
rendered  inaudible  by  occasional  bursts  of  laughter  and  shouts  of 
bacchanalian  mirth  from  the  dining-room.  At  this  moment,  and 
before  the  young  gentleman  could  select  any  mode  of  inquiry  into  the 
particulars  of  the  singular  communication  above  mentioned,  the 
door  was  opened,  and  the  face  of  old  Nancy  appeared,  bearing  on  its 
smoke-dried  features  a  mingled  expression  of  perplexity  and 
sorrow. 

'  Dalton,  a'ra  gal!'  she  exclaimed, '  don't  blame  me  for  what  I'm 
going  to  say  to  you,  for  it  is  my  tongue,  an'  not  my  wish  or  my  heart, 
that  speaks  it.  The  masther  and  the  gentlemen  sent  me  in  to  you, 
an'  bid  me  tell  you,  for  the  sake  of  old  times,  to  give  them  one  fox- 
huntin'  screech  before  you  go.' 

The  old  huntsman  fixed  his  brilliant  but  sickly  eyes  on  the  messen- 
ger, while  a  flush  that  might  have  been  the  indication  of  anger  or  of 
grief,  flickered  like  a  decaying  light  upon  his  brow.  At  length  he 
said:  '  And  did  the  masther  send  that  massage  by  you,  Nancy?' 

'  He  did,  Dalton,  indeed.     Aye,  the  gentlemen  must  be  excused.' 

'  True  for  you,  Nancy,'  said  the  huntsman  after  a  long  pause. 
Then  raising  his  head  with  a  smile  of  seeming  pleasure,  he  con- 
tinued: '  Why  then,  I'm  glad  to  see  the  masther  hasn't  forgot  the 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

dogs  entirely.  Go  to  him,  Nancy,  and  tell  him  that  I'm  glad  to 
hear  that  he  has  so  much  o'  the  sport  left  in  him  still.  And  that  it  is 
kind  father  for  him  to  have  a  feeling  for  his  huntsman,  an'  I  thank 
him.  Tell  him,  Nancy,  to  send  me  in  one  good  glass  o'  Parliament 
punch,  an'  I'll  give  him  such  a  cry  as  he  never  heard  in  a  cock -pit 
anyway.' 

The  punch  was  brought,  and  in  spite  of  the  remonstrances  of 
Hardress,  drained  to  the  bottom.  The  old  huntsman  then  sat  erect 
in  the  bed,  and  letting  his  head  back,  indulged  in  one  prolonged 
'  hoicks! '  that  made  the  phials  jingle  on  the  table,  and  frighted  the 
sparrows  from  their  roosts  beneath  the  thatch.  It  was  echoed  by  the 
jolly  company  hi  the  dining-parlour,  chorused  by  a  howling  from  all 
the  dogs  in  the  yard,  and  answered  by  a  general  clamour  from  the 
fowl-house.  'Another!  another!  hoicks!' resounded  through  the 
house.  But  the  poor  consumptive  was  not  in  a  condition  to  gratify 
the  revellers.  When  Hardress  looked  down  upon  him  next,  the 
pillow  appeared  dark  with  blood,  and  the  cheek  of  the  sufferer  had 
lost  even  the  unhealthy  bloom  that  had  so  long  masked  the  miner 
Death  in  his  work  of  snug  destruction.  A  singular  brilliancy  fixed 
itself  upon  his  eyeballs,  his  lips  were  dragged  backward,  blue  and 
cold,  and  with  an  expression  of  dull  and  general  pain;  his  teeth — but 
wherefore  linger  on  such  a  picture  ? — it  is  better  let  the  curtain  fall. 

Hardress  Cregan  felt  less  indignation  at  this  circumstance  than  he 
might  have  done  if  it  had  occurred  at  the  present  day;  but  yet  he 
was  indignant.  He  entered  the  dining-parlour  to  remonstrate,  with 
a  frame  that  trembled  with  passion. 

'  And  pray,  Hardress,'  said  Hepton  Connolly,  as  he  emptied  the 
ladle  into  his  glass  and  turned  on  him  an  eye  whose  steadiness,  to  say 
the  least,  was  equivocal — '  pray  now,  Hardress,  is  poor  Dalton  really 
dead?' 

'  He  is,  sir.    I  have  already  said  it.' 

'  No  offense,  my  boy.  I  only  asked,  because  if  he  be,  it  is  a  sure 
sign '  (here  he  sipped  his  punch  and  winked  at  Cregan  with  the  con- 
fident air  of  one  who  is  about  to  say  a  right  good  thing), '  it  is  a  sign 
that  he  never  will  die  again.' 

There  was  a  loud  laugh  at  Hardress,  which  confused  him  as  much 
as  if  he  had  been  discomfited  by  a  far  superior  wit.  So  true  it  is, 
that  the  influence,  and  not  the  capacity,  of  an  opponent,  renders  him 
chiefly  formidable;  and  that,  at  least,  a  fair  half  of  the  sum  of  human 
motive  may  be  placed  to  the  account  of  vanity. 

138 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

Hardress  could  think  of  nothing  that  was  very  witty  to  say  in  reply, 
and  as  the  occasion  hardly  warranted  a  slap  on  the  face,  his  proud 
spirit  was  compelled  to  remain  passive.  Unwilling,  however,  to 
leave  the  company  while  the  laugh  continued  against  him,  he  called 
for  a  glass  and  sat  down  amongst  them. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

HOW   THE   GENTLEMEN   SPENT  THE   EVENING,   WHICH   PROVED 
RATHER  WARMER  THAN  HARDRESS  EXPECTED 

'  T)EACE,'  said  Hepton  Connolly,  with  a  face  of  drunken  serious- 
Jl     ness, '  peace  be  to  the  'manes  of  poor  Dalton! ' 

'  Amen,  with  all  my  heart! '  exclaimed  Mr.  Cregan, '  although  the 
cocks  are  well  rid  of  him.  But  a  better  horseman  never  backed  a 
hunter.'  . 

'  I  drink  him,'  said  Hyland  Creagh,  '  although  I  seldom  care  to 
toast  a  man  who  dies  in  his  bed.' 

'  That's  all  trash  and  braggery,  Creagh,'  cried  Connolly;  '  we'll 
have  you  yet  upon  the  flat  of  your  back,  and  roaring  for  a  priest 
into  the  bargain.' 

'  Upon  my  honour  as  a  gentleman,  I  am  serious,'  said  Creagh. 
'  They  may  talk  of  the  field  of  battle  and  bloody  breaches,  forlorn 
hopes,  and  hollow  squares,  and  such  stuff;  but  what  is  the  glory  of 
a  soldier  after  all  ?  To  drag  through  the  fatigues  of  a  whole  cam- 
paign, with  its  concomitants  of  night-watches,  marches  in  marshes, 
and  bivouacs  in  rainy  weather,  and  with  no  brighter  prospect  at  the 
year's  end  than  that  of  making  one  among  half  a  million  of  fighting 
fellows  who  are  shot  on  a  heap  like  larks.  And,  even  then,  you  meet 
not  hand  to  hand,  but  cloud  to  cloud,  moving  about  in  a  flock,  and 
waiting  your  turn  to  take  your  allowance  of  cold  lead,  and  fill  a  pit 
with  your  neighbours.  Glory?  What  glory  is  there  in  figuring  in 
small  types  among  a  list  of  killed  and  wounded  ? — the  utmost  distinc- 
tion that  a  poor  sub  can  ever  hope  for.  Why,  a  coward  is  no  more 
ball-proof  than  a  gallant  fellow,  and  both  may  often  shine  together 
upon  the  same  list.  No — my  ambition  should  have  a  higher  aim. 
While  I  live,  let  my  life  be  that  of  a  fearless  fellow;  and  when  I  die, 
let  my  epitaph  be  found  in  a  handsome  paragraph,  under  the  head 

139 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

of  " Domestic  Intelligence,"  in  the  county  journal.  "Affair  of 
honour.  Yesterday  morning  at  five  o'clock — meeting  took  place — 
Hyland  Creagh,  Esquire — attended  by  Blank,  Esquire — and  Cap- 
tain Blank — attended  by  Blank,  Esquire — regret  to  state — Mr. 
Creagh — third  fire — mortally  wounded — borne  from  the  ground. 
The  affair,  we  understand,  originated  in  a  dispute  respecting  a 
lovely  and  accomplished  young  lady,  celebrated  as  a  reigning  toast 
in  that  quarter.'" 

'  "  And  grand-niece,  we  understand,"  '  added  Hardress,  laugh- 
ing, '  ll  to  the  unhappy  old  gentleman  whose  fate  we  have  just 
recorded."  ' 

There  was  a  laugh  at  Creagh. 

'  Nay,  my  young  friend,'  he  said,  adjusting  his  ruffles  with  the  air 
of  a  Chesterfield,  '  the  journal  that  shall  mention  that  circumstance 
must  be  dated  many  years  hence.' 

'  Adad,  not  so  far  off  neither,  Creagh,'  exclaimed  Mr.  Cregan, 
'  and  if  you  were  to  go  out  to-morrow  morning,  I  should  not  like  to 
see  you  go  posting  to  the  devil  upon  such  a  mission  as  that.' 

'  Talking  of  the  devil,'  said  Hepton  Connolly,  '  did  you  hear, 
Creagh,  that  the  priest  is  to  have  us  all  upon  the  altar  next  Sunday, 
on  account  of  that  little  squib  we  had  in  the  mountains  the  day  of  the 
races?' 

'  It  may  be,'  said  Creagh,  with  a  supercilious  smile;  '  mais  ce  n'est 
pas  man  affaire.  I  have  not  the  honour  to  belong  to  his  com- 
munion.' 

'  Oh,'  cried  Mr.  Cregan, '  true  enough.  You  belong  to  the  genteel 
religion.' 

'  There  you  have  the  whip-hand  of  me,'  said  Connolly,  *  for  I  am 
a  Papist.  Well,  Creagh,  not  meaning  to  impugn  your  gallantry 
now,  I  say  this:  a  Papist,  to  fight  a  duel,  requires  and  possesses  the 
courage  of  a  Protestant  ten  times  over.' 

'  Pray  will  you  oblige  me  with  a  reason  for  that  pleasant  speech?' 

'  'Tis  as  clear  as  this  glass.  A  Protestant  is  allowed  a  wide  dis- 
cretionary range  on  most  ethical,  as  well  as  theological,  points  of 
opinion.  A  poor  Papist  has  none.  The  Council  of  Trent  in  its 
twenty-fifth  session  (I  have  it  from  the  Bishop)  excommunicates  all 
duellists,  and  calls  the  practice  an  invention  of  the  devil.  And  what 
can  I  say  against  it  ?  I  know  something  of  the  common  law,  and  the 
rights  of  things,  persons,  and  so  forth,  but  the  canonical  code  to  me 
is  a  fountain  sealed.  'Tis  something  deeper  than  a  cause  before  the 

140 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

petty  sessions.  'Tis  easier  to  come  at  Blackstone,  or  even  Coke 
upon  Lyttleton  himself,  than  at  Manochius,  or  Saint  Augustine.' 

'  Well,  but  how  you  run  on!  You  were  talking  about  the  courage 
of  a  Protestant  and  Catholic.' 

'  I  say  a  Papist  must  be  the  braver  man;  for  in  addition  to  his 
chance  of  being  shot  through  the  brains  on  a  frosty  morning  in  this 
world  (a  cool  prospect),  it  is  no  joke  to  be  damned  everlastingly  in 
the  next.' 

'  That  never  struck  me  before,'  exclaimed  Cregan. 

'  And  if  it  had,'  said  Creagh,  '  I  confess  I  do  not  see  what  great 
disadvantage  the  reflection  could  have  produced  to  our  friend 
Connolly;  for  he  knew,  that  whether  he  was  to  be  shot  yesterday  in 
a  duel,  or  physicked  out  of  the  world  twenty  years  hence,  that  little 
matter  of  the  other  life  will  be  arranged  in  precisely  the  same 
manner.' 

'  As  much  as  to  say,'  replied  Connolly,  '  that  now  or  then,  the 
devil  is  sure  of  his  bargain.' 

'  My  idea  precisely,  but  infinitely  better  expressed.' 

'  Very  good,  Creagh.  I  suppose  it  was  out  of  a  filial  affection  for 
the  sooty  old  gentleman  you  took  so  much  pains  to  send  me  to  him 
the  other  morning.' 

'  You  placed  your  honour  in  my  hands,  and  I  would  have  seen  you 
raked  fore  and  aft,  fifty  times,  rather  than  let  the  pledge  be  tar- 
nished. If  you  did  go  to  the  devil,  it  was  my  business  to  see  that 
you  met  him  with  clean  hands.' 

'  I  feel  indebted  to  you,  Creagh.' 

'  I  have  seen  a  dozen  shots  exchanged  on  a  lighter  quarrel.  I 
was  present  myself  at  the  duel  between  Hickman  and  Leake,  on  a 
somewhat  similar  dispute.  They  fired  fourteen  shots  each,  and 
when  their  ammunition  was  exhausted,  actually  remained  on  the 
ground  until  the  seconds  could  fetch  a  new  supply  from  the  nearest 
market-town.' 

'  And  what  use  did  they  make  of  it  when  it  came  ? ' 

'  Give  me  time,  and  you  shall  hear.  'Twas  Hickman's  fire,  and 
he  put  his  lead  an  inch  above  Leake's  right  hip  (as  pretty  a  shot  as 
ever  I  saw  in  my  life);  Leake  was  not  killed,  though,  and  he  stood 
to  his  ground  like  a  man.  I  never  will  forget  the  ghastly  look  he 
gave  me  (I  was  his  second),  when  he  asked  whether  the  laws 
of  the  duello  would  allow  a  wounded  man  a  chair.  I  was  confi- 
dent they  did,  so  long  as  he  kept  his  feet  upon  the  sod,  and  I  said 

141 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

so.  Well,  the  chair  was  brought.  He  took  his  seat  somewhat 
in  this  manner,  grasping  the  orifice  of  the  wound  closely  with  his 
disengaged  hand.'  (Here  the  speaker  moved  his  chair  some 
feet  from  the  table,  in  order  to  enact  the  scene  with  greater 
freedom).  '  There  was  a  fatal  steadiness  in  every  motion.  I  saw 
Hickman's  eye  wink,  and  not  without  a  cause.  It  winked  again, 
and  never  opened  after.  The  roof  of  his  skull  was  literally 
blown  away.' 

'  And  the  other  fellow?'  said  Hardress. 

'  The  other  gentleman  fell  from  his  chair,  a  corpse,  at 
the  same  moment,  after  uttering  a  sentiment  of  savage  satis- 
faction too  horrible,  too  blasphemous  to  think  of,  much  less  to 
repeat.' 

'  They  were  a  murderous  pair  of  ruffians,'  said  Hardress,  '  and 
ought  to  have  been  impaled  upon  a  cross-road.' 

'  One  of  them,'  observed  Hyland  Creagh,  sipping  his  punch, '  one 
of  them  was  a  cousin  of  mine.' 

'  Oh,  and  therefore  utterly  blameless,  of  course,'  said  Hardress 
with  an  ironical  laugh. 

'  I  don't  know,'  said  Creagh;  '  I  confess  I  think  it  a  hard  word  to 
apply  to  a  gentleman  who  is  unfortunate  enough  to  die  in  defense  of 
his  honour.' 

'  Honour!'  exclaimed  Hardress,  with  indignant  zeal  (for  though 
he  was  no  great  devotee,  he  had  yet  some  gleams  of  a  half-religious 
virtue  shining  through  his  character) ;  '  call  you  that  honour  ?  I  say 
a  duellist  is  a  murderer,  and  worthy  of  the  gallows,  and  I  will  prove 
it.  The  question  lies  in  the  justice  or  injustice  of  the  mode  of 
reparation.  That  cannot  be  a  just  one  which  subjects  the  aggressor 
and  aggrieved  to  precisely  the  same  punishment.  If  the  duellist  be 
the  injured  party,  he  is  a  suicide;  and  if  he  be  the  inflicter  of  the 
wrong,  he  is  a  murderer.' 

'  Ay,  Hardress,'  said  his  father, '  but  there  are  cases — ' 

'  Oh,  I  know  what  you  mean,  sir.  Fine,  delicate,  thin-spun 
modes  of  insult,  that  draw  on  heavier  insults,  and  leave  both  parties 
labouring  under  the  sense  of  injury.  But  they  are  murderers  still. 
If  I  filled  a  seat  in  the  legislature,  do  you  think  I  would  give  my 
voice  in  favour  of  a  law  that  made  it  a  capital  offense  to  call  a  man  a 
scoundrel  in  the  streets?  And  shall  I  dare  to  inflict  with  my  own 
hand  a  punishment  that  I  would  shudder  to  see  committed  to  the 
hangman?' 

142 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'  But  if  public  war  be  justifiable,'  said  Connolly, '  why  should  not 
private  ? '  * 

'  Aye,'  exclaimed  Hardress,  '  I  see  you  have  got  that  aphorism  of 
Johnson's,  the  fat  moralist,  to  support  you;  but  I  say,  shame  upon 
the  recreant  for  as  mean  and  guilty  a  compliance  with  the  prejudices 
of  the  world  as  ever  parasite  betrayed.  I  stigmatize  it  as  a  wilful 
sin,  for  how  can  I  esteem  the  author  of  "  Rasselas  "  a  fool?' 

'  Very  hardly,'  said  Creagh;  '  and  pray  what  is  your  counter 
argument  ? ' 

'  This.  Public  war  is  never  (when  justifiable)  a  quarrel  for 
sounds  and  conventional  notions  of  honour.  Public  war  is  at  best  a 
social  evil,  and  cannot  be  embraced  without  the  full  concurrence  of 
society,  expressed  by  its  constituted  authorities,  and  obtained  only 
in  obedience  to  the  necessity  of  the  case.  But  to  private  war,  society 
has  given  no  formal  sanction,  nor  does  it  derive  any  advantage  from 
the  practice.' 

'  Upon  my  word,'  said  Creagh,  '  you  have  some  very  curious 
ideas.' 

'  Well,  Hardress,'  exclaimed  Connolly,  '  if  you  have  a  mind  to 
carry  those  notions  into  practice,  I  should  recommend  you  to  try  it 
in  some  other  country  besides  Ireland;  you  will  never  go  through 
with  it  in  this.' 

'  In  every  company  and  on  every  soil,'  said  Hardress, '  I  will  avow 
my  sentiments.  I  never  will  fight  a  duel;  and  I  will  proclaim  my 
purpose  in  the  ears  of  all  the  duellists  on  earth.' 

'  But  society,  young  gentleman — ' 

'  I  bid  society  defiance;  at  least  that  reckless,  godless,  heartless 
crew,  to  whom  you  wrongfully  apply  the  term.  The  greater  portion 
of  those  who  bow  down  before  this  bloody  error,  is  composed  of 
slaves  and  cowards,  who  are  afraid  to  make  their  own  conviction  the 
guide  of  their  conduct. 

'  "Letting  /  dare  not,  wait  upon  I  would, 
Like  the  poor  cat  in  the  adage."  ' 

'  I  am  sure,'  said  Creagh, '  I  had  rather  shoot  a  man  for  doubting 
my  word  than  for  taking  my  purse.' 
'  Because  you  are  as  proud  as  Lucifer,'  exclaimed  Hardress. 

*  I  am  sorry  the  author  of  'Guy  Mannering'  should  have  thought 
proper  to  adopt  the  same  mode  of  reasoning.  Will  posterity  remove 
that  bar  sinister  from  his  literary  escutcheon? 

143 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'  Who  but  the  great  father  of  all  injustice  would  say  that  he  de- 
served to  be  shot  for  calling  you  a — (it  is  an  unpleasant  word  to  be 
sure) — a  liar  ? ' 

'  But  he  does  more.  He  actually  does  strike  at  my  life  and  prop- 
erty, for  I  lose  both  friends  and  fair  repute  if  I  suffer  such  an  insult 
to  pass  unnoticed.' 

In  answer  to  this  plea,  Hardress  made  a  speech,  of  which  (as  the 
newspapers  say)  we  regret  that  our  space  does  not  allow  us  to  offer 
more  than  a  mere  outline.  He  contended  that  no  consequences 
could  justify  a  man  in  sacrificing  his  own  persuasion  of  what  was 
right  to  the  error  of  his  own  friends.  The  more  general  this  error 
was,  the  more  criminal  it  became  to  increase  the  number  of  its  vic- 
tims. The  question  was  not  whether  society  would  disown  or 
receive  the  passive  gentleman,  but  whether  society  was  in  the  wrong 
or  in  the  right;  and  if  the  former,  then  he  was  bound  to  adopt  the 
cause  of  justice  at  every  hazard.  He  drew  the  usual  distinction 
between  moral  and  animal  courage,  and  painted  with  force  and 
feeling  the  heroism  of  a  brave  man  encountering  alone  the  torrent 
of  general  opinion,  and  taking  more  wounds  upon  his  spirit  than  ever 
Horatius  Coccles  risked  upon  his  person.  He  quoted  the  celebrated 
passage  of  the  faithful  seraph  in  Milton,  alluded  to  the  Athenian 
manners,  and  told  the  well-known  story  of  Lucian  Anacharsis,  all  of 
which  tended  considerably  more  to  exhaust  the  patience  than  to 
convince  the  understanding  of  his  hearers. 

'  Finally,'  said  he, '  I  denounce  the  system  of  private  war,  because 
it  is  the  offspring  of  a  barbarous  pride.  It  was  a  barbarous  pride 
that  first  suggested  the  expedient,  and  it  is  an  intolerable  pride  that 
still  sustains  it.  Talk  of  public  war!  The  world  could  not  exist  if 
nation  were  to  take  up  the  sword  against  nation  upon  a  point  of 
honour,  such  as  will  call  out  for  blood  between  man  and  man.  The 
very  word  means  pride.  It  is  a  measureless,  bloody  pride,  that 
demands  a  reparation  so  excessive  for  every  slight  offense.  Take 
any  single  quarrel  of  them  all,  and  dissect  its  motive,  and  you  will 
find  every  portion  of  it  stained  with  pride,  the  child  of  selfishness — 
pride,  the  sin  of  the  first  devil — pride,  the  poor  pitiful  creature  of 
folly  and  ignorance — pride,  the — ' 

'  Oh,  trash  and  stuff,  man,'  exclaimed  Connolly,  losing  patience; 
'  if  you  are  going  to  preach  a  sermon,  choose  another  time  for  it. 
Come,  Creagh,  send  the  bowl  this  way,  and  let  us  drink.  Here, 
young  gentleman,  stop  spouting,  and  give  us  a  toast.  You'll  make 

144 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

a  fool  of  yourself,  Hardress,  if  you  talk  in  that  manner  among 
gentlemen.' 

Without  making  any  answer  to  this  speech  (which,  however,  he 
felt  a  little  difficulty  in  digesting),  Hardress  proposed  the  health  and 
future  fame  of  young  Kyrle  Daly. 

'  With  all  my  heart! '  exclaimed  both  his  father  and  Connolly. 

'  I'll  not  drink  it,'  said  Creagh,  putting  in  his  glass. 

Hardress  was  just  as  proud  (to  borrow  his  own  simile)  as  Lucifer 
himself;  and  probably  it  was  on  this  account  he  held  the  quality  so 
cheap.  It  must  be  admitted,  likewise,  that  his  ambitious  love  of 
singularity  formed  but  too  considerable  a  part  of  his  motive  in  the 
line  of  argument  which  he  had  followed  up;  and  he  was  by  no  means 
prepared  to  perform  the  heroic  part  which  he  had  described  with  so 
much  enthusiasm.  Least  of  all  could  he  be  expected  to  do  so  at  the 
present  moment;  for  while  he  was  speaking,  he  had  also  been 
drinking,  and  the  warmth  of  dispute  increased  by  the  excitement  of 
strong  drink,  left  his  reason  still  less  at  freedom  than  it  might  have 
been  under  the  dominion  of  an  ordinary  passion.  He  insisted  upon 
Creagh's  drinking  his  toast. 

'  I  shall  not  drink  it,'  said  Creagh;  '  I  consider  him  an  imper- 
tinent puppy.' 

'  He  is  my  friend,'  said  Hardress. 

'  Oh,  then,  of  course,'  said  Fireball,  with  an  ironical  smile  (evi- 
dently intended  as  a  retort),  '  he  is  utterly  blameless.' 

To  use  a  vulgar  but  forcible  expression,  the  blood  of  Hardress  was 
now  completely  up.  He  set  his  teeth  for  a  moment,  and  then  dis- 
charged the  contents  of  his  own  glass  at  the  face  of  the  offender. 
The  fire-eater,  who,  from  long  experience,  was  able  to  anticipate 
this  proceeding,  evaded  by  a  rapid  motion  the  degrading  missile; 
and  then  quietly  resuming  his  seat,  '  Be  prepared,  sir,'  he  said, '  to 
answer  this  in  the  morning.' 

'  I  am  ready  now,'  exclaimed  Hardress.  'Connolly,  lend  me  your 
sword,  and  be  my  friend.  Father,  do  you  second  that  gentleman, 
and  you  will  oblige  me.' 

Mr.  Barnaby  Cregan  rose  to  interfere,  but  in  doing  so,  he 
betrayed  a  secret  which  had  till  that  moment  lain  with  himself; 
he  was  the  first  who  fell. 

'  No,  no  swords,'  said  Connolly;  '  there  are  a  pretty  pair 
of  pistols  over  the  chimney-piece.  Let  them  decide  the 
quarrel.' 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

It  was  so  agreed.  Hardress  and  Creagh  took  their  places  in  the 
two  corners  of  the  room,  upon  the  understanding  that  both  were  to 
approach  step  by  step,  and  fire  when  they  pleased.  Hepton  Con- 
nolly took  his  place  out  of  harm's  way  in  a  distant  corner,  while 
Cregan  crept  along  the  floor,  muttering  in  an  indistinct  tone, '  Drunk, 
aye,  but  not  dead  drunk.  I  call  no  man  dead  drunk  while  he  lies  on 
the  high  road,  with  sense  enough  to  roll  out  of  the  way  when  a  car- 
riage is  driving  towards  him.' 

Hardress  fired,  after  having  made  two  paces.  Creagh,  who  was 
unhurt,  reserved  his  shot  until  he  put  the  pistol  up  to  the  head  of  his 
opponent.  Hardress  never  flinched,  although  he  really  believed 
that  Creagh  was  about  to  shoot  him. 

'  Come,'  said  he^loudly,  '  fire  your  shot  and  have  done  with  it.  I 
would  have  met  you  at  the  end  of  a  handkerchief  upon  my  friend's 
quarrel.' 

Hyland  Creagh,  after  enjoying  for  a  moment  the  advantage  he 
possessed,  uncocked  his  pistol  and  laid  it  on  the  table. 

'  Hardress,'  said  he,  '  you  are  a  brave  fellow.  I  believe  I  was 
wrong.  I  ask  your  pardon,  and  am  ready  to  drink  your  toast.' 

'  Oh,  well,'  said  Hardress,  with  a  laugh, '  if  that  be  the  case,  I 
cannot,  of  course,  think  of  pursuing  the  affair  any  farther.'  And  he 
reached  his  hand  to  his  opponent  with  the  air  of  one  who  was  exer- 
cising, rather  than  receiving,  a  kindness. 

The  company  once  more  resumed  their  places  at  the  table,  some- 
what sobered  by  this  incident,  which,  though  not  unusual  at  the 
period,  was  yet  calculated  to  excite  a  little  serious  feeling.  It  was 
not  long,  however,  before  they  made  amends  for  what  was  lost  in  the 
way  of  intoxication.  The  immense  blue  jug,  which  stood  inside  the 
fender,  was  replenished  to  the  brim,  and  the  bowl  flew  round  more 
rapidly  than  ever.  Creagh  told  stories  of  the  Hell-fire  Club  in  the 
sweating  and  pinking  days.  Connolly  overflowed  with  anecdotes 
of  attorneys  outdone,  of  plates  well  won,  of  bailiffs  maimed  and 
beaten;  and  Cregan  (whose  tongue  was  the  last  member  of  his 
frame  that  became  accessory  to  the  sin  of  intoxication),  filled  up  his 
share  in  the  conversation  with  accounts  of  cocks,  and  of  ghosts,  in 
the  appearance  of  which  last  he  was  a  firm  though  not  a  fearful 
believer.  Hardress  remained  with  the  company  until  the  sound  of  a 
vehicle,  drawing  up  at  the  hall-door,  announced  the  return  of  his 
mother  and  cousin.  He  then  left  the  room  and  hurried  to  his  own 
apartment,  in  order  to  avoid  meeting  them  under  circumstances 

146 


Creagh,  who  was  unhurt,  reserved  his  shot. 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

which  he  well  supposed  were  not  calculated  to  create  any 
impression  in  his  own  favour. 

We  cannot  better  illustrate  the  habits  of  the  period  than  by  tran- 
scribing an  observation  made  in  Mr.  Cregan's  kitchen  at  the  moment 
of  the  dispute  above  detailed.  Old  Nancy  was  preparing  the 
mould  candles  for  poor  Dalton's  wake,  when  she  heard  the  shot 
fired  in  the  dining-parlour. 

'  Run  in  to  the  gentlemen,  Mike,  eroo,'  she  exclaimed,  without 
even  laying  aside  the  candle,  which  she  was  paring  with  a  knife,  in 
order  to  make  it  fit  the  socket  more  exactly.  *  I  lay  my  life  the 
gentlemen  are  fighting  a  jewel.' 

'  It  can't  be  a  jewel,'  said  Mike  the  servant-boy,  who  was  courting 
slumber  in  a  low  chair  before  the  blazing  fire.  '  It  can't  be  a  jewel, 
when  there  was  only  one  shot.' 

'  But  it  isn't  long,  I'll  be  bail,  till  they'll  fire  another  if  they 
don't  be  hindered;  for  'tis  shot  for  shot  with  'em.  Run  in,  eroo.' 

The  servant  stretched  his  limbs  out  lazily,  and  rubbed  his  eyes. 
'  Well,'  said  he,  '  fair  play  all  the  world  over.  If  one  fired,  you 
wouldn't  have  the  other  put  up  with  it,  without  havin'  his  fair 
revinge  ? ' 

'  But  maybe  one  of  'em  is  kilt  already! '  observed  Nancy. 

'  E'then,  d'ye  hear  this  ?  Sure  you  know,  well,  that  if  there  was 
anybody  shot,  the  master  would  ring  the  bell!' 

This  observation  was  conclusive.  Old  Nancy  proceeded  with  her 
gloomy  toil  in  silence,  and  the  persuasive  Mike,  letting  his  head  hang 
back  from  his  shoulders,  and  crossing  his  hands  upon  his  lap,  slept 
soundly  on,  undisturbed  by  any  idle  conjectures  on  the  cause  of  the 
noise  which  they  had  heard. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

HOW  HARDRESS  MET  AN  OLD  FRIEND  AND  MADE  A  NEW  ONE 

FANCY  restored  the  dreaming  Hardress  to  the  society  of  his 
beloved  Eily.     He  sat  by  her  side  once  more,  quieting,  with 
the  caresses  of  a  boyish  fondness,  her  still  recurring  anxieties,  and 
comforting  her  apprehensions  by  endeavouring  to  make  her  share 
his  own  steady  anticipation  of  his  mother's  favour  and  forgiveness. 

147 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

This  hope,  on  his  own  part,  it  must  be  acknowledged,  was  much 
stronger  in  his  sleeping  than  his  waking  moments;  for  it  was  ex- 
traordinary how  different  his  feeling  on  that  subject  became  after  he 
had  reached  his  home,  and  when  the  moment  of  disclosure  drew 
near.  His  extreme  youth,  all  ruined  as  he  was  by  over-indulgence, 
made  him  regard  his  mother  with  a  degree  of  reverence  that  ap- 
proached to  fear;  and  as  he  seldom  loved  to  submit  when  once 
aroused  to  contest,  so  he  was  usually  careful  to  avoid,  as  much  as 
possible,  any  occasion  for  the  exercise  of  his  hereditary  perseverance. 
The  influence  of  his  parent,  however,  consisted  not  so  much  in  her 
parental  authority,  as  in  the  mastery  which  she  held  over  his  filial 
affections,  which  partook  of  the  intensity  that  distinguished  his  en- 
tire character.  Mrs.  Cregan  governed  both  her  husband  and  her 
son;  but  the  means  which  she  employed  in  moulding  each  to  her 
own  wishes  were  widely  different.  In  her  arguments  with  the  former 
it  was  her  usual  practice  to  begin  with  an  entreaty  and  end  with  a 
command.  On  the  contrary,  when  she  sought  to  work  upon  the 
inclinations  of  Hardress,  she  opened  with  a  command,  and  concluded 
with  an  entreaty.  It  was  indeed,  as  Hardress  had  frequently  ex- 
perienced, a  difficult  task  to  withstand  her  instances,  when  she  had 
recourse  to  the  latter  expedient.  Mrs.  Cregan  possessed  all  the 
national  warmth  of  temperament  and  liveliness  of  feeling.  Like  all 
naturally  generous  people,  whose  virtue  is  rather  the  offspring  of  a 
kindly  heart  than  a  well-regulated  understanding,  Mrs.  Cregan  was 
not  more  boundless  in  her  bounty  than  in  her  exaction  of  gratitude. 
She  not  only  looked  for  gratitude  to  those  whom  she  had  obliged,  but 
was  so  exorbitant  as  to  imagine  that  all  those  likewise  whom  she 
really  wished  to  serve  should  return  her  an  equal  degree  of  kindness, 
and  actually  evince  as  lively  a  sense  of  obligation  as  if  her  wishes  in 
their  favour  had  been  deeds.  Alas!  in  this  selfish  world,  we  are 
told  that  real  benefits  are  frequently  forgotten  by  the  receiver,  and 
sometimes  repaid  by  cold  unkindness  or  monstrous  hostility.  It  is 
no  wonder,  then,  that  Mrs.  Cregan  should  have  sometimes  found 
people  slow  to  appreciate  the  value  of  her  vain  desires. 

While  Hardress  was  still  murmuring  some  sentiment  of  passionate 
admiration  in  the  ear  of  his  visionary  bride,  he  was  awakened  by  the 
pressure  of  a  light  finger  on  his  shoulder.  He  looked  up  and  beheld 
a  lady  in  a  broad-leafed  beaver  hat,  and  ball-dress,  standing  by  his 
bedside,  and  smiling  down  upon  him  with  an  air  of  affection  and 
reproof.  Her  countenance,  though  it  had  already  acquired  in  a 

148 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

slight  degree  that  hardness  of  outline  which  marks  the  approach  of 
the  first  matronal  years,  was  striking,  and  even  beautiful  in  its 
character.  The  forehead  was  high  and  commanding,  the  eye  of  a 
dark  hazel,  well  opened,  and  tender  and  rapid  in  its  expression. 
The  entire  face  had  that  length  of  feature  which  painters  employ  in 
their  representations  of  the  tragic  muse,  and  the  character  of  the 
individual  had  given  to  this  natural  conformation  a  depth  of  feeling 
which  was  calculated  to  make  a  strong  and  even  gloomy  impression 
on  the  imagination  of  the  beholder.  Her  person,  likewise,  partook 
of  this  imposing  character,  and  was  displayed  to  some  advantage  by 
her  dress,  the  richness  of  which  was  perfectly  adapted  to  her  lofty 
and  regal  air.  It  consisted  of  a  beautiful  poplin,  a  stomacher  set  off 
with  small  brilliants,  and  a  rich  figured  silk  petticoat,  which  was 
fully  displayed  in  front.  The  skirt  of  the  gown  parted  and  fell  back 
from  either  side,  while  a  small  hoop,  occupying  the  position  of  the 
modern  Vestris,  imparted  to  this  interesting  portion  of  a  figure  a 
degree  of  fashionable  slimness  and  elegance.  An  amber  necklace, 
some  enormous  brooches,  and  rings  containing  locks  of  hair,  the 
bequest  of  three  succeeding  generations,  completed  the  decorations 
of  her  person. 

'  You  are  a  pretty  truant,'  she  said, '  to  absent  yourself  for  a  whole 
fortnight  together,  and  at  a  time,  too,  when  I  had  brought  a  charming 
friend  to  make  your  acquaintance.  You  are  a  pretty  truant.  And 
immediately  on  your  return,  instead  of  showing  any  affectionate 
anxiety  to  compensate  for  your  inattention,  you  run  off  to  your 
sleeping  chamber,  and  oblige  your  foolish  mother  to  come  and  seek 
you.' 

'  My  trim,  mother,  would  have  hardly  become  your  drawing- 
room.' 

'  Or  looked  to  advantage  in  the  eyes  of  my  lovely  visitor?' 

*  Upon  my  word,  mother,  I  had  not  a  thought  of  her.  I  should 
feel  as  little  inclined  to  appear  wanting  in  respect  to  you,  as  to  any 
visitor  to  whom  you  could  introduce  me.' 

'  Respect?'  echoed  Mrs.  Cregan,  while  she  laid  the  light  away 
upon  the  dressing-table  (in  such  a  position  that  it  could  shine  full 
and  bright  upon  the  features  of  her  son),  and  took  a  chair  near  his 
bedside.  '  Respect  is  fond  of  going  well  dressed,  I  grant  you;  but 
there  is  another  feeling,  Hardress,  that  is  far  more  sensitive  and 
exquisite  on  points  of  this  nature,  a  feeling  much  more  lively  and 
anxious  than  any  that  a  poor  fond  mother  can  expect,  Do  not 

149 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

interrupt  me;  I  am  not  so  unreasonable  as  to  desire  that  the  course 
of  human  nature  should  be  inverted  for  my  sake.  But  I  have  a 
question  to  ask  you.  Have  you  any  engagement  during  the  next 
month  that  will  prevent  your  spending  it  with  us?  If  you  have,  and 
if  it  be  not  a  very  weighty  one,  break  it  off  as  politely  as  you  can. 
You  owe  some  little  attention  to  your  cousin,  and  I  think  you  ought 
to  pay  it.' 

Hardress  looked  displeased  at  this,  and  muttered  something  about 
his  inability  to  see  in  what  way  this  obligation  had  been  laid 
upon  him. 

*  If  you  feel  no  disposition  to  show  a  kindness  to  your  old  play- 
fellow,' said  his  mother,  endeavouring  to  suppress  her  vexation, 
'  you  are  of  course  at  liberty  to  act  as  you  please.  You,  Hardress, 
in  your  own  person,  owe  nothing  to  the  Chutes,  unless  you  accept 
their  general  claim,  as  near  relatives  of  mine.' 

'  They  could  not,  my  dear  mother,  possess  a  stronger.  But  this 
is  a  sudden  change.  While  I  was  in  Dublin,  I  thought  that  both 
you  and  my  father  had  broken  off  the  intercourse  that  subsisted 
between  the  families,  and  lived  altogether  within  yourselves.' 

'  It  was  a  foolish  coldness  that  had  arisen  between  your  aunt  and 
myself  on  account  of  some  free,  some  very  free,  expressions  she  had 
used  with  regard  to  your  father.  But  when  she  fell  ill,  and  my  poor 
darling  Anne  was  left  to  struggle,  unassisted,  beneath  the  weight  of 
occupation  that  was  thrown  thus  suddenly  upon  her  hands,  my 
self-respect  gave  way  to  my  love  for  them  both.  I  drove  to  Castle 
Chute,  and  divided  with  Anne  the  cares  of  nurse-tending  and  house- 
keeping, until  my  dear  Hetty's  health  was  in  some  degree  restored. 
About  a  fortnight  since,  by  the  force  of  incessant  letter-writing,  and 
the  employment  of  her  mother's  influence,  I  obtained  Anne's  very 
reluctant  consent  to  spend  a  month  at  Killarney.  Now,  my  dear 
Hardress,  you  must  do  me  a  kindness.  I  have  no  female  friend  of 
your  cousin's  age,  whose  society  might  afford  her  a  constant  source 
of  enjoyment,  and  in  spite  of  all  my  efforts  to  procure  her  amuse- 
ment, I  cannot  but  observe  that  she  has  been  more  frequently  dull 
than  merry  since  her  arrival.  Now  you  can  prevent  this  if  you  please. 
You  must  remain  at  home  while  she  is  with  us,  entertain  her  while  I 
am  occupied,  walk  with  her,  dance  with  her,  be  her  beau.  If  she 
were  a  stranger,  hospitality  alone  would  call  for  those  attentions,  and 
I  think,  under  the  circumstances,  your  own  good  feeling  will  teach 
you  that  she  ought  not  to  be  neglected.' 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

*  My  dear  mother,  do  not  say  another  word  upon  the  subject.  It 
will  be  necessary  for  me  to  go  from  home  sometimes;  but  I  can 
engage  to  spend  a  great  portion  of  the  month  as  you  desire.  Send 
for  a  dancing-master  to-morrow  morning.  I  am  but  an  awkward 
fellow  at  best,  but  I  will  do  all  that  is  in  my  power.' 

'  You  will  breakfast  with  us  then  to-morrow  morning,  and  come 
on  a  laking  party  ?  It  was  for  the  purpose  of  making  you  promise, 
I  disturbed  your  rest  at  this  hour;  for  I  knew  there  was  no  calculat- 
ing in  what  part  of  Munster  one  might  find  you  after  sunrise.' 

'  How  far  do  you  go?' 

'  Only  to  Innisfallen.' 

'  Ah,  dear,  dear  Innisfallen!  I  will  be  with  you  certainly,  mother. 
Ah,  dear  Innisfallen!  Mother,  do  you  think  that  Anne  remembers 

the  time  when  Lady  K invited  us  to  take  a  cold  dinner  in  Saint 

Finian's  oratory  ?  It  is  one  of  the  sweetest  days  that  ever  brightened 
my  recollection.  I  think  I  can  still  see  that  excellent  lady  laying  her 
hand  upon  Anne  Chute's  shoulder,  and  telling  her  that  she  should 
be  the  little  princess  of  this  little  fairy  isle.  Dear  Innisfallen!  If  I 
were  to  tell  you,  mother,  how  many  a  mournful  hour  that  single 
happy  one  has  cost  me!' 

'  Tell  me  of  no  such  thing,  my  boy.  Look  forward  and  not  back. 
Reserve  the  enjoyment  of  your  recollections  until  you  are  no  longer 
capable  of  present  and  actual  happiness.  And  do  not  think,  Har- 
dress,  that  you  make  so  extraordinary  a  sacrifice  in  undertaking  this 
petty  office.  There  is  many  a  fine  gentleman  in  Killarney  who 
would  gladly  forego  a  whole  season's  sport  for  the  privilege  of  acting 
such  a  part  for  a  single  day.  I  cannot  describe  to  you  the  sensation 
your  cousin  has  produced  since  her  arrival.  Her  beauty,  her 
talents,  her  elegance,  and  her  accomplishments  are  the  subject  of 
conversation  in  every  circle.  You  will  acquire  a  greater  brilliance 
as  the  satellite  of  such  a  planet  than  if  you  were  to  move  for  ages  in 
your  own  solitary  orbit.  But  if  I  were  to  say  all  that  I  desire,  you 
should  not  sleep  to-night;  so  I  shall  reserve  it  to  a  moment  of  greater 
leisure.  Good  night,  Hardress,  and  sleep  soundly,  for  the  cock- 
swain is  to  be  at  the  door  before  nine.' 

Mrs.  Cregan  was  well  acquainted  with  the  character  of  her  son. 
The  distinction  of  attending  on  so  celebrated  a  beauty  as  his  cousin 
was  one  to  which  his  vanity  could  never  be  indifferent,  and  nothing 
could  be  more  agreeable  to  his  pride  than  to  find  it  thus  forced  upon 
him  without  any  effort  of  his  own  to  seek  it.  To  be  thus,  out  of 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

pure  kindness,  and  much  against  his  own  declared  wishes,  placed  in 
a  situation  which  was  so  generally  envied!  To  obtain  likewise 
(and  these  were  the  only  motives  that  Hardress  would  acknowledge 
to  his  own  mind) — to  obtain  an  opportunity  of  softening  his  mother's 
prejudices  against  the  time  of  avowal,  and  of  forwarding  the  interest 
of  his  friend  Kyrle  Daly  in  another  quarter.  All  these  advantages 
were  sufficient  to  compensate  to  his  pride  for  the  chance  of  some 
mortifying  awkwardness,  which  might  occur  through  his  long 
neglect  of,  and  contempt  for,  the  habitual  forms  of  society. 

'  And  of  all  the  places  in  the  world,'  thought  Hardress, '  Killarney 
is  the  scene  for  such  a  debut  as  this.  There  is  such  an  everlasting 
fund  of  conversation.  The  very  store  of  commonplace  remarks  is 
inexhaustible.  If  it  rains,  one  can  talk  of  the  Killarney  showers, 
and  tell  the  story  of  Mr.  Fox;  and  if  the  sun  shine,  it  must  shine 
upon  more  wonders  than  a  hundred  tongues  as  nimble  as  those  of 
Fame  herself  could  tell.  The  teasing  of  the  guides,  the  lies  of  the 
boatmen,  the  legends  of  the  lakes,  the  English  arrivals,  the  echoes, 
the  optical  illusions,  the  mists,  the  mountains.  If  I  were  as  dull  as 
Otter,  I  could  be  as  talkative  as  the  barber  in  the  "  Arabian  Nights  " 
on  such  a  subject,  and  yet  without  the  necessity  of  burthening 
my  tongue  with  more  than  a  sentence  at  a  time.' 

Notwithstanding  these  encouraging  reflections,  Hardress,  next 
morning,  experienced  many  a  struggle  with  his  evil  shame  before  he 
left  his  chamber  to  encounter  his  mother's  charming  visitor.  What 
was  peculiar  hi  the  social  timidity  of  this  young  gentleman  lay  in  the 
circumstance  that  it  could  scarcely  ever  be  perceived  in  society.  His 
excessive  pride  prevented  his  often  incurring  the  danger  of  a  mortify- 
ing repression,  and  it  could  hardly  be  inferred  from  his  reserved  and, 
at  the  same  time,  dignified  demeanour,  whether  his  silence  were  the 
effect  of  ill-temper,  stupidity,  or  bashfulness.  Few  indeed  ever 
thought  of  attributing  it  to  that  lofty  philosophical  principle  to 
which  he  himself  pretended;  and  there  was  but  one,  in  addition 
Kyrle  Daly,  of  all  his  acquaintances,  on  whom  it  did  not  produce 
an  unfavourable  impression. 

After  having  been  summoned  half-a-dozen  times  to  the  breakfast- 
parlour,  and  delaying  each  time  to  indulge  in  a  fresh  glance  at  the 
mirror,  to  adjust  his  hair,  which  had  now  too  much,  and  now  too 
little  powder;  to  alter  the  disposition  of  his  shirt-frill,  and  con- 
summate the  tying  of  his  cravat,  Hardress  descended  to  the  parlour, 
where,  to  his  surprise,  he  found  his  cousin  seated  alone.  She  was 

152 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

simply  dressed,  and  her  hair,  according  to  the  fashion  of  unmarried 
ladies  at  the  period,  fell  down  in  black  and  shining  ringlets  on  her 
neck.  A  plain  necklace  of  the  famous  black  oak  of  the  lakes,  and  a 
Maltese  cross  formed  from  the  hoof  of  the  red  deer,  constituted  the 
principal  decorations  of  her  person.  There  was  a  consciousness, 
and  even  a  distress  in  the  manner  of  their  meeting.  A  womanly 
reserve  and  delicacy  made  Anne  unwilling  to  effect  an  intimacy  that 
might  not  be  met  as  she  could  desire;  and  his  never-failing  pride 
prevented  Hardress  from  seeming  to  desire  a  favour  that  he  had  rea- 
son to  suppose  might  not  be  granted  him. 

Accordingly,  the  great  store  of  conversation  which  he  had  been 
preparing  the  night  before,  now,  to  his  astonishment,  utterly  de- 
serted him,  and  he  discovered  that  subject  is  an  acquisition  of  little 
use  while  it  is  unassisted  by  mutual  confidence  and  good-will  among 
the  interlocutors.  Nothing  was  effective,  nothing  told;  and  when 
Mrs.  Cregan  entered  the  parlour,  she  lifted  her  hands  in  wonder,  to 
see  her  fair  visitor  seated  by  the  fire,  and  reading  some  silly  novel  of 
the  day  (which  happened  to  lie  near  her),  while  Hardress  affected  to 
amuse  himself  with  Creagh's  dog  Pincher  at  the  window,  and  said 
repeatedly  within  his  own  heart,  'Ah,  Eily,  my  own,  own  Eily!  you 
are  worth  this  fine  lady  a  hundred  times  over.* 

'  Anne!  Hardress!  My  lady,  and  my  gentleman!  Upon  my 
word,  Hardress,  you  ought  to  be  proud  of  your  gallantry.  On  the 
very  first  morning  of  your  return,  I  find  you  seated  at  the  distance  of 
half  a  room  from  your  old  playfellow,  and  allowing  her  to  look  for 
entertainment  in  a  stupid  book!  But  perhaps  you  have  not  spoken 
yet?  Perhaps  you  do  not  know  each  other?  Oh,  then  it  is  my 
duty  to  apologize  for  being  out  of  the  way.  Miss  Chute,  this  is  Mr. 
Hardress  Cregan;  Mr.  Hardress  Cregan,  this  is  Miss  Chute.' 
And  she  went  through  a  mock  introduction  in  the  formal  manner  of 
the  day. 

The  lady  and  gentleman  each  muttered  something  hi  reply.  '  We 
have  spoken,  ma'am,'  said  Hardress. 

'We  have  spoken,  ma'am!'  echoed  Mrs.  Cregan.  'Sir,  your 
most  obedient  servant!  You  have  made  a  wonderful  effort,  and 
shown  a  great  deal  of  condescension!  You  have  spoken!  You 
have  done  everything  that  a  gentleman  of  so  much  dignity  and  con- 
sequence was  called  upon  to  do,  and  you  will  not  move  a  single  foot- 
step farther.  But  perhaps,'  she  added,  glancing  at  Anne,  '  perhaps 
I  am  dealing  unjustly  here.  Perhaps  the  will  to  hear,  and  not  the 

153 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

will  to  say,  was  wanted.  If  the  fault  lay  with  the  listener,  Hardress, 
speak  I  It  is  the  only  defense  that  I  will  think  of  admitting.' 

'  Except  that  the  listener  might  not  be  worth  the  trial,'  said  Anne, 
in  the  same  tone  of  liveliness,  not  unmingled  with  pique;  '  I  don't 
know  how  he  can  enter  such  a  plea  as  that.' 

'  Ohl  Hardress!  Oh,  fie,  Hardress!  There's  a  charge  from  a  lady.' 

'  I  can  assure  you,'  said  Hardress,  a  little  confused,  yet  not  dis- 
pleased with  the  manner  in  which  his  cousin  took  up  the  subject, 
'  I  am  not  conscious  of  having  deserved  any  such  accusation.  If 
you  call  on  me  for  a  defense,  I  can  only  find  it  in  a  simple  recrimina- 
tion. Anne  has  been  so  distant  to  me  ever  since  my  return  from 
Dublin  that  I  was  afraid  I  had  offended  her.' 

'  Very  fair,  sir,  a  very  reasonable  plea,  indeed.  Well,  Miss 
Chute,'  continued  Mrs.  Cregan,  turning  round  with  an  air  of  mock 
gravity  to  her  young  visitor, '  why  have  you  been  so  distant  to  my  son 
since  his  return  as  to  make  him  suppose  he  had  offended  you?' 
And  she  stood  with  her  hands  expanded  before  her  in  the  attitude 
of  one  who  looks  for  an  explanation. 

'  Offended  me!'  said  Anne.  'I  must  have  been  exceedingly  un- 
reasonable indeed  if  I  had  quarrelled  with  anything  that  was  said  or 
done  by  Hardress,  for  I  am  sure  he  never  once  allowed  me  the 
opportunity.' 

'  Oh,  oh!'  exclaimed  Mrs.  Cregan,  clasping  her  hands  and  burst- 
ing into  a  fit  of  laughter.  '  You  grow  more  severe.  If  I  were  a 
young  gentleman,  I  should  sink  down  with  shame  after  such  an  im- 
putation as  that.' 

Hardress  found  himself  suddenly  entrapped  in  a  scene  of  coquetry. 
'  Might  not  one  do  better,  mother,'  he  said,  running  lightly  across 
the  room,  and  taking  a  seat  close  by  the  side  of  his  cousin — 'might 
not  one  do  better  by  endeavouring  to  amend?' 

'  But  it  is  too  late,  sir,'  said  Anne,  affecting  to  move  away;  '  my 
aunt  Cregan  is  right,  and  I  am  offended  with  you.  Don't  sit  so  near, 
if  you  please.  The  truth  is,  I  have  made  up  my  mind  not  to  like  you 
at  all,  and  I  never  will  change  it,  you  may  be  certain.' 

'  That  is  too  hard,  Anne.  We  are  old  friends,  you  should  re- 
member. What  can  I  have  done  to  make  you  so  inveterate?' 

'  That's  right,  Hardress,'  said  Mrs.  Cregan,  who  had  now  taken 
her  place  at  the  breakfast-table;  'do  not  be  discouraged  by  her. 
Give  her  no  peace  until  she  is  your  friend.  But  in  the  meantime 
come  to  breakfast.  The  cockswain  has  been  waiting  this  half -hour.' 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

The  same  scene  of  coquetry  was  continued  during  the  morning. 
Hardress,  who  was  no  less  delighted  than  surprised  at  this  change  of 
manner  in  his  lovely  cousin,  assumed  the  part  of  a  duteous  knight 
endeavouring  by  the  most  assiduous  attentions  to  conciliate  the 
favour  of  his  offended  '  ladye';  and  Anne  maintained  with  a  playful 
dignity  the  inexorable  coldness  and  reserve  which  was  the  preroga-/ 
tive  of  the  sex  in  the  days  of  chivalry  and  sound  sense.  '  We  hate  - 
those,'  says  Bruyere, '  who  treat  us  with  pride;  but  a  smile  is  suffi- 
cient to  reconcile  us.'  In  proportion  to  the  chagrin  which  the 
fancied  coldness  of  his  fair  cousin  had  occasioned  to  the  quick- 
hearted  Hardress,  was  the  pleasure  which  he  received  from  this 
unexpected  and  intimate  turn  of  manner.  And  now  it  was,  more- 
over, that  he  became  capable  of  doing  justice  to  the  real  character 
of  the  young  lady.  No  longer  embarrassed  by  the  feeling  of  strange- 
ness and  apprehension  which  had  kept  her  spirits  back  on  their  first 
meeting,  Anne  now  assumed  to  him  that  ease  and  liveliness  of 
manner  with  which  she  was  accustomed  to  fascinate  her  more 
familiar  acquaintances.  He  was  astonished,  even  to  a  degree  of 
consternation,  at  the  extent  both  of  her  talents  and  her  knowledge. 
On  general  subjects  he  found,  with  extreme  and  almost  humiliating 
surprise,  that  her  information  very  nearly  approached  his  own; 
and  in  a  graceful  and  unostentatious  application  of  that  knowl- 
edge to  familiar  subjects  she  possessed  the  customary  female 
superiority. 

We  will  not  intrude  so  far  upon  the  peculiar  province  of  the 
guide-books  as  to  furnish  any  detail  of  the  enchanting  scenery 
through  which  our  party  travelled  in  the  course  of  the  forenoon. 
Every  new  sight  that  he  beheld,  every  new  hour  that  he  spent  in  the 
society  of  his  cousin,  assisted  in  disabusing  his  mind  of  the  prejudice 
which  he  had  conceived  against  her,  and  supplying  its  place  by  a 
feeling  of  strong  kindness.  It  happened,  likewise,  that  in  the 
course  of  the  day,  many  circumstances  occurred  to  render  him 
well  satisfied  with  the  company  of  his  new  associates.  The  dis- 
position to  please  and  be  pleased  was  general  amongst  them;  and 
Hardress  was  flattered  by  the  degree  of  attention  which  he  received 
not  only  from  his  own  party,  but  from  his  mother's  fashionable 
acquaintances,  to  whom  he  was  introduced  in  passing.  Life,  spirit, 
courtliness  of  manner,  and  kindness  of  feeling,  governed  the  tone  of 
conversation  throughout  the  day;  and  Hardress  bore  his  part,  in 
quality  of  host,  with  a  degree  of  success  and  effect  that  was  a  matter 

155 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

of  astonishment  to  himself.  One  or  two  of  the  younger  ladies  only 
were  heard  to  say  that  Mr.  Cregan  was  a  little  inattentive,  and  that 
he  seemed  to  imagine  there  was  not  another  lady  of  the  party  beside 
Miss  Chute;  but  it  is  suspected  that  even  those  pretty  murmurers 
were  by  no  means  the  least  sensible  of  the  merit  of  the  person  whom 
they  censured.  When  the  evening  drew  near,  and  the  party  left  the 
island  for  home,  Hardress  was  once  more  surprised  to  find  that, 
although  he  had  been  speaking  for  nearly  half  the  day,  he 
had  not  once  found  it  necessary  to  make  allusion  to  the  Kil- 
larney  showers,  the  optical  deceptions,  or  the  story  of  Charles 
James  Fox. 

When  he  parted  from  the  merry  circle  in  order  to  fulfil  his  promise 
to  Eily,  a  feeling  of  blank  regret  fell  suddenly  upon  his  heart,  like 
that  which  is  experienced  by  a  boy  when  the  curtain  falls  at  the 
close  of  the  first  theatrical  spectacle  which  he  has  ever  witnessed. 
His  mother,  who  knew  him  too  well  to  press  any  inquiry  into  the 
nature  of  his  present  engagement,  had  found  no  great  difficulty  in 
making  him  promise  to  return  on  the  next  day,  in  order  to  be  present 
at  a  ball,  which  she  was  about  to  give  at  the  cottage.  The  regret 
which  Anne  manifested  at  his  departure  (to  her  an  unexpected 
movement),  and  the  cordial  pleasure  with  which  she  heard  of  his 
intention  to  return  on  the  next  morning,  inspired  him  with  a  feeling 
of  happiness,  which  he  had  not  hitherto  experienced  since  his 
childhood. 

The  next  time  he  thought  of  Anne  and  Eily  at  the  same  moment, 
the  conjunction  was  not  so  unfavourable  to  the  former  as  it  had 
been  in  the  morning.  '  There  is  no  estimating  the  advantage/ 
he  said  within  his  own  mind, '  which  the  society  of  so  accomplished 
a  girl  as  that  must  produce  on  the  mind  and  habits  of  my  dear  little 
Eily.  I  wish  they  were  already  friends.  My  poor  little  love!  how 
much  she  has  to  learn  before  she  can  assume,  with  comfort  to  her- 
self, the  place  for  which  I  have  designed  her.  But  women  are 
imitative  creatures.  They  can  more  readily  adapt  themselves  to 
the  tone  of  any  new  society  than  we,  who  boast  a  firmer  and  less 
ductile  nature;  and  Eily  will  find  an  additional  facility  in  the 
good  nature  and  active  kindness  of  Anne  Chute.  I  wish  from 
my  heart  they  were  already  friends.' 

As  he  finished  this  reflection,  he  turned  his  pony  off  the 
Gap-road  upon  the  crags  which  led  to  the  cottage  of  Phil 
Naughten. 

'56 


THE  COLLEGIANS 
CHAPTER  XX 

HOW    HARDRESS    HAD    A    STRANGE    DREAM    OF    EILY 

THE  burst  of  rapture  and  affection  with  which  he  was  received 
by  Eily,  banished  for  the  moment  every  other  feeling  from  the 
mind  of  the  young  husband.  Her  eyes  sparkled,  and  her  counte- 
nance brightened  at  his  entrance,  with  the  innocent  delight  of  a 
child.  Her  colour  changed,  and  her  whole  frame  was  agitated 
•by  a  passion  of  joy,  which  Hardress  could  scarcely  have  anticipated 
if  his  absence  had  been  prolonged  to  a  much  more  considerable 
time.  He  could  not  avoid  feeling  that  Eily  was  as  far  beyond  his 
cousin  in  gentleness  of  feeling,  in  ready  confidence  and  winning 
simplicity  of  manner,  as  she  was  excelled  by  the  latter  in  dignity  of 
mind  and  of  demeanour,  in  elegant  knowledge,  and  in  correctness 
of  taste. 

They  stood  at  the  open  door,  Eily  being  yet  encircled  by  the  arm 
of  her  husband,  and  gazing  on  his  face,  while  the  expression  of 
rapture  that  had  illumined  the  countenances  of  both  faded  gradu- 
ally away  into  a  look  of  calm  and  settled  joy.  On  a  sudden  their 
ears  were  startled  by  a  hoarse,  husky,  and  yet  piercing  voice,  which 
seemed  to  proceed  from  a  crag  that  sheltered  the  cottage  on  the 
left  side.  Looking  upward,  Hardress  beheld  a  woman  standing 
on  the  turf,  whose  gesture  and  appearance  showed  her  to  be  one 
of  a  race  of  viragos  who  are  now  less  numerous  in  the  country  parts 
of  Ireland  than  they  were  some  twenty  years  since.  Her  face  and 
hair  announced  a  Spanish  origin;  her  dress  consisted  of  a  brown 
stuff  garment,  fastened  up  at  the  back  with  a  row  of  brass  buttons, 
and  a  muslin  cap  and  ribbon,  considerably  injured  by  the  effect  of 
long  possession.  An  old  drab  jock,  soiled  and  stained  by  many 
a  roll  in  the  puddle  of  the  mountain  fairs,  was  superadded;  and 
in  her  right  hand  she  grasped  a  short,  heavy,  oak  stick,  which,  if 
one  might  judge  by  the  constant  use  she  made  of  it  in  enforcing 
her  gestures,  was  as  necessary  to  her  discourse  as  the  famous  thread 
of  Lord  Chesterfield's  orator.  Her  eyes  were  bloodshot  from 
watching  and  intemperance;  and  the  same  causes,  joined  to  a 
habitual  violence  of  temper,  had  given  to  her  thin,  red  and  streaky 
countenance,  a  sudden  and  formidable  turn  of  expression. 

'  Ha!    ha!    my  children!    my  two  fine,  clever  children,  are  ye 
there?     Oh,  the  luck  o'  me,  that  it  wasn't  a  lad  like  you  I  married; 

'57 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

a  clever  boy,  with  the  red  blood  running  under  his  yellow  skin,  like 
that  sun  over  behind  the  clouds,  instead  of  the  mane,  withered 
disciple  that  calls  my  house  his  own  this  day.  Look  at  the  beauty 
of  him!  look  at  the  beauty  of  him!  I  might  have  been  a  lady  if 
I  liked.  Oh,  the  luck  o'  me!  the  luck  o'  me!  Five  tall  young 
men,  every  one  of  'em  a  patthern  for  a  faction,  and  all,  all  dead 
in  their  graves,  down,  down,  an'  no  one  left  but  that  picthur  o' 
misery,  that  calls  himself  my  husband.  If  it  wasn't  for  the  whiskey,' 
she  added,  while  she  came  down  the  crags,  and  stood  before  the 
pair,  '  my  heart  would  break  with  the  thoughts  of  it.  Five  tall 
young  men,  brothers  every  one,  an'  they  to  die,  an'  he  to  live! 
Wouldn't  it  kill  the  Danes  to  think  of  it !  Five  tall  young  men !  Gi' 
me  the  price  of  the  whiskey.' 

'  Indeed  I  will  not,  Poll.    You  have  had  enough  already.' 

1  No,  nor  half!'  shouted  the  Amazon.  'A  dhram  is  enough, 
but  two  dhrams  isn't  half  enough,  an'  I  had  only  two.  Coax  him, 
ma  chree,  ma  lanuv,  to  gi'  me  the  price  o'  the  whiskey.' 

Eily,  who  stood  in  great  terror  of  this  virago,  turned  a  suppli- 
cating glance  on  Hardress. 

'  Your  young  mistress,'  said  the  latter,  '  would  not  become  a 
participator  in  the  sin  of  your  drunkenness.' 

'My  misthress!  The  ropemaker's  daughter!  My  misthress! 
Eily-na-thiadarucha!  Welcome  from  Gallow's  Green,  my  mis- 
thress! The  poor  silly  crathur!  Is  it  because  I  call  you,  with  the 
blood  of  all  your  fathers  in  your  veins,  a  gentleman,  my  masther, 
that  I'd  call  her  a  lady,  and  my  misthress  ?  Gi'  me  the  price  o'  the 
whiskey!' 

'  I  shall  not,  Poll.     Go  back/ 

'  Gi'  me  the  price  o'  the  whiskey,  or  I'll  tear  the  crooked  eyes  out 
o'  your  yellow  face!  Gi'  me  it,  I  tell  you,  or  I'll  give  my  misthress 
more  kicks  than  ha'pence,  the  next  time  I  catch  her  alone  in  the 
house,  an'  you  away  coorting  an'  divarting  at  Killarney.' 

'  Cool  yourself,  Poll,  or  I'll  make  you  cool.' 

'  You  a  gentleman!  There  isn't  a  noggin  o'  genteel  blood  in 
the  veins  o'  your  whole  seed,  breed,  an'  generation.  You  have  a 
heart!  you  stingy,  bone-polishing,  tawny-faced,  beggarly,  mane- 
spirited  mohawk,  that  hadn't  the  spirit  to  choose  between  poverty 
an'  dignity!  You  a  gentleman!  The  highest  and  the  finest  in 
the  land  was  open  to  you,  an'  you  hadn't  the  courage  to  stand  up 
to  your  fortune.  You  a  heart!  Except  a  lady  was  to  come  an' 

'58 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

coort  you  of  herself,  sorrow  chance  she'd  ever  have  o'  you  or  you 
of  her.  An'  signs  on,  see  what  a  misthress  you  brought  over  us! 
I  wondher  you  had  the  courage  to  spake  to  her  itself.  While  others 
looked  up,  you  looked  down.  I  often  seen  a  worm  turn  to  a  butter- 
fly, but  I  never  heerd  of  a  butterfly  turning  to  a  worm  in  my  life 
before.  You  a  heart!  I'll  lay  a  noggin,  if  the  docthors  open  you 
when  you  die,  they  won't  find  such  a  thing  as  a  heart  in  your  whole 
yellow  carcass,  only  a  could  gizzard,  like  the  turkey's.' 

Hardress  turned  pale  with  anger  at  this  coarse,  but  bitter  satire. 
*  Do  stop  her  mouth,  my  dear  Hardress,'  murmured  Eily,  whose 
total  want  of  pride  rendered  her  almost  incapable  of  resentment. 
'  Do  silence  her.  That  woman  makes  me  afraid  for  my  very  life.' 

'  Never  entertain  the  least  apprehension  on  that  subject,  Eily. 
There  is  one  key  to  the  good  will  of  Fighting  Poll,  by  which  you 
may  be  always  certain  of  keeping  your  place  in  her  affections.  It 
is  whiskey.  Keep  her  in  whiskey,  and  you  keep  her  faithful.  Nor 
need  you  ever  fear  to  be  out-purchased;  for  Poll  has  just  good 
principle  enough  to  prefer  a  little  whiskey  with  honesty  to  a  great 
deal  obtained  as  the  wages  of  treason.  Well,  Poll,'  he  continued, 
turning  to  that  Amazon, '  you  are  too  many  for  me.  Here  is  half- 
a-crown  to  drink  my  health,  and  be  a  good  girl.' 

'  Half-a-crown!'  shouted  the  woman,  catching  the  glittering 
coin  as  Hardress  sent  it  twirling  through  the  air.  'I  knew  you 
were  your  father's  son,  for  all!  I  knew  'tis  o'  purpose  you  were. 
I  knew  you  had  the  nature  in  you,  after  all!  Ha!  here  comes 
Phil  and  Danny  at  last.  Come,  sthrip,  now,  Phil!  Sthrip  off  the 
coat  at  once,  an'  let  us  see  if  M'Donough  laid  the  horsewhip  over 
your  shoulders  to-day.' 

The  man  only  returned  her  a  surly  glance  in  answer  to  this 
speech. 

'What  M'Donough  is  this,  Phil?'  said  Hardress.  'What 
horsewhipping  do  you  speak  of,  Poll?' 

'  I'll  tell  you,  sir,'  returned  Phil.  '  He  is  our  landlord,  an'  the 
owner  of  all  the  land  about  you,  as  far  as  you  can  see,  an'  farther. 
He  lives  about  a  mile  away  from  us,  an'  is  noted  for  being  a  good 
landlord  to  all,  far  an'  near.  Only  there's  one  fashion  he  has,  and 
that's  a  throublesome  one  to  some  of  his  people.  As  he  gives  all 
manner  of  lases  at  a  raisonable  rent  himself,  he  wishes  that  his  land 
should  be  sub-let  raisonable  also,  which  makes  him  very  contrairy 
whenever  there  does  be  any  complaints  of  hard  usage  from  the 

J59 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

undher  tenants.  I'll  tell  you  his  plan  when  he  finds  anything  o'  the 
sort  afther  his  head  tenants.  He  doesn't  drive  'em,  nor  be  hard 
upon  'em,  nor  ax  for  the  arrears,  nor  one  ha'p'orth,  only  sends  his 
sarvant-boy  down  to  their  house  with  a  little  whip-handle,  about 
so  big,  that's  as  well  known  upon  his  estate  as  the  landlord's  own 
face.  Well,  the  sarvant-boy  comes  in,  as  it  might  be  to  my  cabin 
there  (if  he  had  hard  anything  again'  me),  and  without  ever  sayin' 
one  word,  he  walks  in  to  the  middle  of  the  floore,  an'  lays  the  whip- 
handle  upon  the  table,  and  walks  out  again  without  ever  sayin' 
one  word.  Very  well,  the  tenant  knows,  when  he  sees  the  whip, 
that  he  must  carry  it  up  to  his  landlord  next  morning,  as  sure  as 
he  has  a  head  upon  his  shoulders;  an'  take  it  from  me,  there's 
many  lads  among  'em  have  no  great  welcome  for  the  siglith  of  it. 
Well,  up  they  go  to  the  great  house,  an'  there  they  ax  for  the  masther, 
an'  they  carry  the  whip-handle  into  his  parlour,  where  he  locks  the 
door  upon  'em,  an'  if  they  can't  well  account  for  what  they  done, 
he  makes  'em  sthrip,  and  begins  flaking  'em  with  a  horsewhip  until 
their  back  is  all  one  griskin;  an'  then  he  tells  'em  to  go  about  their 
business,  an'  let  him  hear  no  complaints  in  future.  I  thought  it 
was  a  ghost  I  seen  myself,  last  night,  when  I  found  the  whip- 
handle  on  my  own  table.  But  I  made  all  clear  when  I  seen 
the  masther.' 

'  That  is  pushing  his  authority  to  a  feudal  extent,'  said 
Hardress. 

'  Nothing,  Phil,  nothing.  Poll,  go  in  now,  and  get  supper  ready 
in  your  mistress's  room.' 

'  Let  Phil  get  it,'  returned  the  Amazon.  '  I  want  to  step  over  to 
the  sthreet*  for  a  pound  o'  candles.' 

'A  pound  o'  candles!'  echoed  her  helpmate  with  a  sneering 
emphasis. 

"Iss,  what  else?'  exclaimed  Poll,  grasping  her  baton,  and  looking 
back  on  him  with  a  menacing  gesture. 

'  You  know  best  what  else,  yourself,'  said  the  husband.  '  We 
all  know  what  sort  o'  candles  it  is  you're  going  for.  I  lay  my  life 
you're  afther  gettin'  money  from  the  masther.  But  away  with 
you,  don't  think  I  want  to  stop  you.  Your  absence  is  betther 
company  than  your  presence  any  day  in  the  year.'  So  saying  he 
preceded  our  hero  and  heroine  into  the  cottage,  muttering,  in  a 
low  voice,  a  popular  distich: 

*  Village. 

160 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'Joy  be  with  you,  if  you  never  come  back, 
Dead  or  alive,  or  o'  horseback. ' 

In  the  course  of  this  evening,  Eily  remarked  that  her  husband, 
though  affectionate  as  she  could  desire,  was  more  silent  and  ab- 
stracted than  she  had  ever  seen  him,  and  that  he  more  frequently 
spoke  in  correction  of  some  little  breach  of  etiquette,  or  inelegance 
of  manner,  than  in  those  terms  of  eloquent  praise  and  fondness 
which  he  was  accustomed  to  lavish  upon  her.  One  advantage, 
however,  of  Eily's  want  of  penetration  was,  that  the  demon  of 
suspicion  never  disturbed  the  quiet  of  her  soul;  and  it  required 
the  utmost  and  the  most  convincing  evidence  of  falsehood,  to  shake 
the  generous  and  illimitable  confidence  which  she  reposed  in  any 
person  who  was  once  established  in  her  affections.  While  she  felt, 
therefore,  some  little  pain  on  her  husband's  account,  she  never 
experienced  the  slightest  trouble  on  her  own.  She  endeavoured 
with  cheerfulness  to  adapt  herself  to  his  wishes,  and  though  in  this 
she  could  not  become  immediately  successful,  he  would  have 
owned  a  rigid  temper,  indeed,  if  it  had  not  been  softened  by  the 
submissive  sweetness  of  her  demeanour. 

And  Hardress  was  softened,  though  not  satisfied  by  her  gentle 
efforts.  He  observed  on  this  evening  a  much  more  considerable 
number  of  those  unpleasing  blemishes  than  he  had  on  any  other, 
and  the  memory  of  them  pursued  him  even  into  his  midnight 
slumbers,  where  Fancy,  as  usual,  augmented  their  effect  upon  his 
mind.  He  dreamed  that  the  hour  had  come  on  which  he  was  to 
introduce  his  bride  to  his  rich  and  fashionable  acquaintances,  and 
that  a  large  company  had  assembled  at  his  mother's  cottage  to 
honour  the  occasion.  Nothing,  however,  could  exceed  the  bash- 
fulness,  the  awkwardness,  and  the  homeliness  of  speech  and  accent, 
with  which  the  ropemaker's  daughter  received  their  compliments; 
and  to  complete  the  climax  of  his  chagrin,  on  happening  to  look 
round  upon  her  during  dinner,  he  saw  her  in  the  act  of  peeling  a 
potato  with  her  fingers!  This  phantom  haunted  him  for  half  the 
night.  He  dreamed,  moreover,  that  when  he  reasoned  with  her  on 
this  subject,  she  answered  him  with  a  degree  of  pert  vulgarity  and 
impatience  which  was  in  '  discordant  harmony '  with  her  shyness 
before  strangers,  and  which  made  him  angry  at  heart  and  miserable 
in  mind. 

The  dreams  of  passion  are  always  vivid,  distinct,  and  deeply 
impressive.  The  feeling  of  anger  and  annoyance  remained  on  the 

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THE   COLLEGIANS 

mind  of  Hardress  even  after  he  awoke,  and  although  he  never  failed 
to  correct  and  dispel  the  sensation,  whenever  it  arose,  yet  through- 
out the  whole  of  the  following  morning,  a  strong  and  disagreeable 
association  was  awakened  whenever  he  looked  upon  Eily. 

Before  he  again  left  her,  Hardress  explained  the  nature  of  his 
present  position  with  respect  to  his  mother,  and  informed  his  wife 
of  the  necessity  which  existed  for  spending  a  considerable  portion 
of  the  month  which  was  to  come  at  his  father's  cottage.  Eily 
heard  this  announcement  with  pain  and  grief,  but  without  remon- 
strance. She  cried  like  a  child  at  parting  with  him;  and  after  he 
had  ridden  away,  remained  leaning  against  the  jamb  of  the  door 
with  her  moistened  handkerchief  placed  against  her  cheek,  in  an 
attitude  of  musing  sorrow.  He  had  promised  to  return  on  the 
second  day  after,  but  how  was  she  to  live  over  the  long,  long 
interval  ?  A  lonesomeness  of  heart,  that  was  in  mournful  accord- 
ance with  the  mighty  solitudes  in  which  she  dwelt,  fell  down  and 
abode  upon  her  spirit. 

On  that  night  Hardress  was  one  of  the  gayest  revellers  at  his 
mother's  ball.  Anne  Chute,  who  was,  beyond  all  competition, 
the  star  of  the  evening,  favoured  him  with  a  marked  and  cordial 
distinction.  The  flattering  deference  with  which  he  was  received 
by  all  with  whom  he  entered  into  conversation  during  the  night 
surprised  him  into  ease  and  fluency;  and  the  success  of  his  own 
eloquence  made  him  in  love  with  his  auditory.  When  it  is  con- 
sidered that  this  was  the  very  first  ball  he  had  ever  witnessed  since 
his  boyhood,  and  that  his  life  in  the  interim  had  been  the  life  of  a 
recluse,  its  effect  upon  his  mind  will  cease  to  be  a  matter  of  surprise. 
The  richness  of  the  dresses — the  liveliness  of  the  music — the  beauty 
of  the  fair  dancers — the  gaiety  of  their  young  partners — the  air  of 
elegant  mirth  that  filled  the  whole  apartment — produced  a  new  and 
delicious  sensation  of  happiness  in  the  susceptible  temper  of  Har- 
dress. Our  feelings  are  so  much  under  the  government  of  our 
habits,  that  a  modern  English  family  in  the  same  rank  might  have 
denied  the  praise  of  comfort  to  that  which  in  the  unaccustomed  eyes 
of  Hardress  wore  the  warmer  hue  of  luxury;  for  he  lived  at  a  time 
when  Irish  gentlemen  fostered  a  more  substantial  pride  than  at 
present;  when  appearances  were  comparatively  but  little  consulted, 
and  the  master  of  a  mansion  cared  not  how  rude  was  the  interior, 
or  how  ruinous  the  exterior  of  his  dwelling,  provided  he  could 
always  maintain  a  loaded  larder  and  a  noisy  board.  The  scene 

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THE  COLLEGIANS 

around  him  was  not  less  enervating  to  the  mind  of  our  hero  because 
the  chairs  which  the  company  used  were  of  plain  oak,  and  the  light 
from  the  large  glassjlustre  fell  upon  coarse,  unpapered  walls,  whose 
only  ornaments  consisted  of  the  cross-barred  lines  drawn  with  the 
trowel  in  the  rough  gray  mortar.  Many  of  those  who  are  accus- 
tomed to  scenes  of  elegant  dissipation  might  not  readily  give 
credence  to  the  effect  which  was  wrought  upon  his  feelings  by 
circumstances  of  comparatively  little  import.  The  perfumed  air 
of  the  room,  the  loftiness  of  the  ceiling,  the  festooning  of  the  drapery 
above  the  windows,  the  occasional  pauses  and  changes  in  the  music, 
all  contributed  to  raise  his  mind  into  a  condition  of  peculiar  and 
exquisite  enthusiasm,  which  made  it  susceptible  of  deep,  dangerous, 
and  indelible  impressions.  The  wisdom  of  religion,  in  prescribing 
a  strict  and  constant  government  of  the  senses,  could  not  be  more 
apparent  than  on  an  occasion  like  this,  when  their  influence  upon 
the  .reason  became  almost  as  potent  and  absorbing  as  that  of  an 
internal  passion. 

In  the  midst  of  this  gaiety  of  heart  and  topping  fulness  of  mind, 
a  circumstance  occurred  to  throw  it  into  a  more  disturbed  and 
serious,  but  scarce  less  delightful,  condition.  The  intervals  in  the 
dancing  were  filled  up  by  songs  from  the  company,  and  Anne 
Chute  in  her  turn  was  called  on  for  her  contribution  of  melody. 
Hardress  was  leaning  over  her  chair,  and  looking  at  the  music- 
book,  which  she  was  turning  over,  leaf  after  leaf,  as  if  in  search  of 
some  suitable  piece  for  the  occasion. 

'  Ah,  this  will  do,  I  think,'  said  Anne,  pausing  at  a  manuscript 
song,  which  was  adapted  to  an  old  air,  and  running  a  rapid  prelude 
along  the  keys  of  the  instrument.  The  letters  H.  C.  were  written 
at  the  top  of  the  page,  and  Hardress  felt  a  glow  like  fire  upon  his 
brow  the  instant  he  beheld  them.  He  drew  back  a  little  out  of  the 
light,  and  listened,  with  an  almost  painful  emotion,  to  the  song 
which  the  fair  performer  executed  with  an  ease  and  feeling  that 
gave  to  the  words  an  effect  beyond  that  to  which  they  might  them- 
selves have  pretended.  They  were  the  following: 


A  place  in  thy  memory,  dearest, 

Is  all  that  I  claim, 
To  pause  and  look  back  when  thou  hearest 

The  sound  of  my  name. 


THE   COLLEGIANS 


Another  may  woo  thee,  nearer, 
Another  may  win  and  wear; 

I  care  not  though  he  be  dearer, 
If  I  am  remembered  there. 


Remember  me — not  as  a  lover 

Whose  hope  was  cross'd, 
Whose  bosom  can  never  recover 

The  light  it  hath  lost. 
As  the  young  bride  remembers  the  mother 

She  loves,  though  she  never  may  see; 
As  a  sister  remembers  a  brother, 

O,  dearest!   remember  me. 

in. 

Could  I  be  thy  true  lover,  dearest, 

Could'st  thou  smile  on  me,' 
I  would  be  the  fondest  and  nearest 

That  ever  loved  thee! 
But  a  cloud  on  my  pathway  is  glooming 

That  never  must  burst  upon  thine; 
And  Heaven,  that  made  thee  all  blooming, 

Ne'er  made  thee  to  wither  on  mine. 


Remember  me,  then! — O,  remember, 

My  calm,  light  love; 
Though  bleak  as  the  blasts  of  November 

My  life  may  prove, 
That  life  will,  though  lonely,  be  sweet, 

If  its  brightest  enjoyment  should  be 
A  smile  and  kind  word  when  we  meet, 

And  a  place  in  thy  memory. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

HOW  HARDRESS  MET  A  STRANGE  TRIAL 

'  "|\/T OTHER,  can  you  tell  me  why  Anne  Chute  appears  so  ab- 
.1 VJL  stracted  and  so  reserved  in  her  manner  these  few  days  past  ? 
Is  she  ill  ?    Is  she  out  of  spirits  ?     Is  she  annoyed  at  anything  ? ' 

Hardress  Cregan,  who  spoke  this  speech,  was  resting  with  his  arm 
on  the  sash  of  one  of  the  cottage  windows.  Mrs.  Cregan  was  stand- 
ing at  a  table  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  arranging  several  small 

164 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

i 

packages  of  plate,  glass,  and  china,  which  had  been  borrowed  from 
various  neighbours  on  the  occasion  of  the  ball.  At  a  little  distance 
stood  old  Nancy  in  her  blue  cloak  and  hood,  awaiting  the  commands 
of  her  mistress,  who,  as  she  proceeded  with  her  occupation,  glanced, 
at  intervals,  a  sharp  and  inquiring  eye  at  her  son. 

'  Here,  Nancy,  take  this  china  to  Mrs.  Geogheghan,  with  my 
compliments,  and  tell  her  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  her — and,  for 
your  life,  you  horrible  old  creature,  take  care  not  to  break  them.' 

'  Oyeh,  murther!  is  it  I  ?    Fake  'em  sure,  that  I  won't,  so.' 

'  And  tell  Mike,  as  you  are  going  down-stairs,  to  come  hither.  I 
want  to  send  him  with  those  spoons  to  Miss  Macarthy.' 

'  Mike  isn't  come  back  yet,  ma'am,  since  he  wint  over  with  the 
three-branch  candlestick  to  Mrs.  Crasbie.' 

'  He  is  a  very  long  time  away,  then.' 

'  Can  you  tell  me,  mother,'  said  Hardress,  after  in  vain  expecting 
an  answer  to  his  former  queries,  '  can  you  tell  me,  mother,  if  Anne 
Chute  has  had  any  unpleasing  news  from  home  lately  ? ' 

'  Well,  Nancy,'  continued  Mrs.  Cregan,  appearing  not  to  have 
heard  her  son, '  run  away  with  your  parcel,  and  deliver  your  message 
as  you  have  been  told,  and  hurry  back  again,  for  I  have  three  more 
places  to  send  you  to  before  dinner.' 

'  Allilu!  my  ould  bones  will  be  fairly  wore  from  undher  me,  with 
the  dint  o'  thrall ivantin/  muttered  Nancy  as  she  left  the  room. 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,  Hardress,  my  dear.  Were  you  not  speaking  ? 
My  attention  is  so  occupied  by  those  affairs  that  I  have  not  a  head 
for  anything  besides.  This  is  one  of  the  annoyances  produced 
by  your  father's  improvidence.  He  will  not  purchase  those  things, 
and  I  am  obliged  to  borrow  them,  and  to  invite  their  owners  into 
the  bargain.  I  should  not  mind  the  borrowing  but  for  that,  as 
they  are,  generally  speaking,  very  inferior  in  quality  to  the  articles 
they  lend  me.  In  my  thoughts,  the  latter  always  occupy  so  much 
more  important  a  place  than  their  possessors,  that  in  sending  a 
note  of  invitation  to  Mrs.  Crosbie  (or  Crasbie,  as  Nancy  calls  her), 
the  other  day,  I  was  on  the  point  of  writing:  "  Mrs.  Cregan  presents 
her  compliments  to  the  three-branched  candlestick." — But  were 
you  not  speaking  to  me?' 

'  I  merely  asked  you,  mother,  if  you  knew  the  cause  of  the  change 
which  has  lately  appeared  in  Anne  Chute's  manner,  and  which  I 
have  observed  more  especially  since  the  night  of  the  ball  ? ' 

'  I  do,'  said  Mrs,  Cregan, 

165 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

Hardress  turned  his  face  round,  and  looked  as  if  he  expected  to 
hear  more. 

'  But  before  I-  inform  you,'  continued  Mrs.  Cregan,  '  you  must 
answer  me  one  question.  What  do  you  think  of  Anne  Chute  ? ' 

'Think  of  her,  mother?' 

1  "  Think  of  her,  mother! "  You  echo  me,  like  the  ancient  in  the 
play.  I  hope  it  is  not  that  you  have  got  any  such  monster  in  your 
thoughts  as  may  not  meet  the  light.' 

Hardress  shook  his  head  with  a  smile  of  deep  meaning.  '  Indeed, 
mother,'  he  said,  '  it  is  far  otherwise.  I  am  ashamed  to  trust  my 
lips  with  my  opinion  of  Anne  Chute.  She  is,  in  truth,  a  fascinating 
girl.  If  I  were  to  tell  you,  in  the  simplest  language,  all  that  I  think, 
and  all  that  I  feel  in  her  favour,  you  would  say  that  you  had  found 
out  a  mad  son  in  Hardress.  She  is  indeed  an  incomparable  young 
woman.' 

'  A  girl,'  said  his  mother,  who  heard  this  speech  with  evident 
satisfaction — '  a  girl,  who  is  far  too  amiable  to  become  the  victim 
of  disappointed  feelings.' 

'  Of  disappointed  feelings  ? ' 

'  Another  echo!  Why,  you  seem  to  have  caught  the  mocking  spirit 
from  the  Lakes.  I  tell  you  she  is  within  the  danger  of  such  an  event.' 

'  How  is  that,  mother  ? ' 

'  Close  that  door  and  I  will  tell  you.  I  see  you  have  remarked 
the  increasing  alteration  in  her  manner.  If  I  should  entrust  you 
with  a  lady's  secret,  do  you  think  you  know  how  to  venerate  it  ? ' 

'  Why  so,  mother  ? ' 

'  Ah,  that's  a  safe  answer.  Well,  I  think  I  may  trust  you  without 
requiring  a  pledge.  Anne  Chute  has  met  with  the  usual  fate  of 
young  ladies  at  her  age.  She  is  deep  in  love.' 

Hardress  felt  the  hot  blood  gather  upon  his  brow,  when  he  heard 
these  words.  '  You  are  jesting,  mother,'  he  said  at  length,  and  with 
a  forced  smile. 

'  It  is  a  sad  jest  for  poor  Anne,  however,'  said  Mrs.  Cregan  with 
much  seriousness.  '  She  is  completely  caught,  indeed.  I  never  saw 
a  girl  so  much  in  love  in  my  life.' 

'  He  is  a  happy  fellow,'  said  Hardress,  after  a  pause  and  in  a 
deep  voice; '  he  is  either  a  very  stupid,  or  a  very  happy  fellow,  whom 
Anne  Chute  distinguishes  with  her  regard.  And  happy  he  must 
be,  for  a  stupid  lover  could  never  press  so  wearily  upon  the  remem- 
brance of  such  a  girl.  He  is  a  very  happy  fellow.' 

166 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'  And  yet,  to  look  at  him,  you  would  suppose  he  was  neither  the 
one  nor  the  other,'  said  his  mother. 

'  What  is  his  name  ? ' 

'  Can  you  not  guess?' 

The  name  of  Kyrle  Daly  rose  to  the  lips  of  Hardress,  but  from 
some  undefinable  cause,  he  was  unable  to  pronounce  it.  '  Guess  ? ' 
he  repeated;  '  not  I.  Captain  Gibson  ? ' 

'  Pooh !  what  an  opinion  you  have  formed  of  Anne,  if  you  suppose 
her  to  be  one  of  those  susceptible  misses  to  whom  the  proximity  of 
a  red  coat,  in  country  quarters,  is  an  affair  of  fatal  consequence.' 

*  Kyrle  Daly,  then?' 

'  Poor  Kyrle,  no.  But  that  I  think  she  has  already  chosen 
better,  I  could  wish  it  were  he,  poor  fellow!  But  you  do  not  seem 
inclined  to  pay  your  cousin  a  compliment  this  morning.  Do  you 
not  think  you  guess  a  little  below  her  worth  ? ' 

1  Not  in  Kyrle  Daly.  He  is  a  lover  for  a  queen.  He  is  my  true 
friend.' 

'That,'  said  his  mother  with  emphasis,  'might  be  some  recom- 
mendation.' 

Hardress  gazed  on  her  as  if  altogether  at  a  loss. 

'  Well,  have  you  already  come  to  a  stand  ? '  said  Mrs.  Cregan. 
'  Then  I  believe  I  shall  not  insist  on  your  exposing  your  own  dull- 
ness any  longer.  Come  hither,  Hardress,  and  sit  near  me.' 

The  young  gentleman  took  a  chair  at  his  mother's  side,  and 
awaited  her  further  speech  with  increasing  interest. 

'  Hardress,'  she  said, '  I  have  a  claim,  independent  of  my  natural 
right,  to  your  obedience;  and  I  must  insist  in  this  one  instance,  at 
least,  on  its  not  being  contested.  Listen  to  me.  I  have  now  an 
object  in  view,  to  the  accomplishment  of  which  I  look  forward  with 
a  passionate  interest,  for  it  has  no  other  aim  than  the  completion 
of  your  happiness;  a  concern,  my  beloved  boy,  which  has  always 
sat  closest  to  my  heart,  even  from  your  childhood.  I  have  no  child 
but  you.  My  other  little  babes  are  with  their  Maker.  I  have  none 
left  but  you,  and  I  think  I  feel  my  heart  yearn  towards  you  with  all 
the  love  which,  if  those  angels  had  not  flown  from  me,  would  have 
been  divided  amongst  them.' 

She  paused,  affected;  and  Hardress  lowered  his  face  in  deep 
and  grateful  emotion. 

'  It  is,  I  think,  but  reasonable,  therefore,'  Mrs.  Cregan  con- 
tinued, '  to  desire  your  concurrence  in  a  project  which  has  your  own 

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THE   COLLEGIANS 

happiness  only  for  its  object.  Are  you  really  so  dull  of  perception 
as  not  to  be  aware  of  the  impression  you  have  made  on  the  affections 
of  Anne  Chute  ? ' 

'  That  / — /  have  made?'  exclaimed  Hardress,  with  a  confusion 
and  even  wildness  in  his  manner,  which  looked  like  a  compound 
of  joy  and  terror.  '  That  I — did  you  say,  mother  ? ' 

'  That  you  have  made,'  repeated  his  mother.  '  It  is  true,  indeed, 
Hardress.  She  loves  you.  This  fascinating  girl  loves  you  long  and 
deeply.  This  incomparable  young  woman,  with  whose  praises 
you  dare  not  trust  your  tongue,  is  pining  for  your  love  in  the  silence 
of  her  chamber.  This  beautiful  and  gifted  creature,  who  is  the 
wonder  of  all  who  see,  and  the  love  of  all  who  know  her,  is  ready  to 
pour  forth  her  spirit  at  your  feet  in  a  murmur  of  expiring  fondness. 
Use  your  fortunes.  The  world  smiles  brightly  on  you.  I  say 
again,  Anne  Chute  is  long,  deeply,  and  devotedly  your  own.' 

Hardress  drank  in  every  accent  of  this  poisonous  speech  with 
that  fatal  relish  which  is  felt  by  the  infatuated  Eastern  for  his 
draught  of  stilling  tincture.  While  he  lay  back  in  his  chair,  how- 
ever, to  enjoy  the  full  and  swelling  rapture  of  his  triumph,  a  horrid 
remembrance  suddenly  darted  through  his  brain,  and  made  him 
start  from  his  chair  as  if  he  had  received  a  blow. 

'  Mother,'  said  he, '  you  are  deceived  in  this.  It  is  not,  it  cannot 
be,  the  fact.  I  see  the  object  of  which  you  speak,  and  I  am  sure 
your  own  anxiety  for  its  accomplishment  has  led  you  to  miscalcu- 
late. My  own  surmises  are  not  in  unison  with  yours.' 

'  My  dear  child,'  replied  his  mother, '  I  have  a  far  better  authority 
than  surmise  for  what  I  say.  Do  you  think,  my  love,  that  I  would 
run  the  hazard  of  disturbing  your  peace  without  an  absolute  assur- 
ance of  the  truth  of  my  statement  ?  I  have  an  authority  that  ought 
to  satisfy  the  most  distrustful  lover,  and  I  will  be  guilty  of  a  breach 
of  confidence,  in  order  to  set  your  mind  at  rest,  for  I  am  certain  of 
your  honour.  It  is  the  confession,  the  reluctant  and  hardly  won 
confession,  of  my  darling  Anne  herself.' 

Again  a  revulsion  of  frightful  rapture  rushed  through  the  frame 
of  the  listener,  and  made  him  resume  his  chair  in  silence. 

'  When  we  came  here  first,'  continued  Mrs.  Cregan,  '  I  could 
perceive  that  there  was  a  secret,  although  I  was  far  from  suspecting 
its  nature.  The  first  glimpse  of  light  that  broke  upon  the  mystery 
was  produced  by  accident.  You  remember  poor  Dalton,  ouf 
old  huntsman?  I  happened  to  speak  to  Anne  of  his  attachment 

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THE   COLLEGIANS 

to  you,  and  could  at  once  observe  that  her  interest  for  the  man  was 
ardently  awakened.' 

'  I  remember,  I  remember  like  a  dream,'  said  Hardress,  raising 
his  finger  in  the  manner  of  one  endeavouring  to  strengthen  an 
indistinct  recollection;  '  poor  Dalton  told  me  Anne  had  been  kind 
to  him.  Anne?  No,  no,'  he  added,  with  much  confusion,  'he 
named  no  one.  He  said,  a  person  in  this  house  had  been  kind  to 
him.  I  was  prevented  from  inquiring  farther.' 

'  That  person,'  said  Mrs.  Cregan, '  was  Anne  Chute.  From  the 
moment  of  that  conversation  my  eyes  were  opened;  and  I  felt  like 
one  who  has  suddenly  discovered  the  principle  of  an  intricate  and 
complicated  system.  I  saw  it  in  her  silence,  while  your  arrival 
was  delayed;  I  saw  it  on  the  morning  of  your  meeting;  I  saw  it 
throughout  that  day;  I  saw  it  in  her  dissembled  grief;  in  her 
dissembled  joy.  Poor,  dear  girl!  I  saw  it  in  the  almost  childlike 
happiness  that  sparkled  in  her  eyes  when  you  came  near  us,  and 
in  the  sudden  gloom  that  followed  your  departure.  For  shame, 
my  child!  Why  are  you  so  dull  of  perception?  Have  you  eyes? 
Have  you  ears?  Have  you  a  brain  to  comprehend,  or  a  heart  to 
estimate,  your  good  fortune?  It  should  have  been  your  part,  not 
mine,  to  draw  that  dear  acknowledgment  from  the  lips  of  Anne, 
last  night.' 

To  this  observation,  Hardress  replied  only  by  a  low  moan,  which 
had  in  it  an  expression  of  deep  pain.  '  How,  mother,'  he  at  length 
asked,  in  a  hoarse  tone, '  by  what  management  did  you  draw  this 
secret  from  her?' 

'  By  a  simple  process.  By  making  it  worth  her  while  to  give 
me  her  confidence.  By  telling  her  what  I  have  long  since  per- 
ceived, though  it  may  possibly  have  escaped  your  own  observation, 
that  her  passion  was  not  unrequited;  that  you  were  as  deeply  in 
love  with  her  as  she  was  with  you.' 

'  Me  ? — me  in  love !  You  could  not,  you  would  not,  surely,  mother, 
speak  with  so  much  rashness,'  exclaimed  Hardress,  in  evident 
alarm. 

'  Why — do  you  not  love  her,  then  ? ' 

'  Love  her,  mother  ? ' 

'  I  see  you  have  not  yet  done  with  the  echoes.' 

'  I  love  her  as  a  cousin  should  love  a  cousin — nothing  more.' 

'  Aye,  but  she  is  no  cousin  of  yours.  Come!  It  must  be  either 
more  or  less.  Which  shall  I  say  ? ' 

169 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

'  Neither.  It  is  in  that  light  I  have  always  looked  upon  Anne. 
I  could  not  love  her  less.  I  would  not,  dare  not  love  her  more.' 

'  Dare  not  ?  You  have  got  a  strange  vocabulary  for  a  lover. 
What  do  you  mean  by  "dare  not?','  What  mighty  daring  is 
requisite  to  enable  a  young  man  to  fall  in  love  with  a  young  lady 
of  whose  affection  he  is  already  certain?  The  daring  that  is 
necessary  for  wedlock  is  an  old  bachelor's  sneer,  which  should 
never  be  heard  on  lips  that  are  ruddy  with  the  blood  of  less  than 
forty  summers.  Why  dare  you  not  love  Anne  Chute  ? ' 

*  Because  by  doing  so  I  should  break  my  faith  to  another.' 
Mrs.  Cregan  fixed  her  eye  on  him  as  if  somewhat  stunned. 

'What  do  you  say,  Hardress?'  she  murmured  just  above  her 
breath. 

'  I  say,  mother,  that  my  heart  and  faith  are  both  already  pledged 
to  another,  and  that  I  must  not  break  my  engagement.' 

'  Do  you  speak  seriously?' 

'  I  could  not  jest  on  this  subject  if  I  were  so  inclined.' 

*  And  dare  you  tell  me  this?'  Mrs.  Cregan  exclaimed,  starting 
up  from  her  seat  with  a  sudden  fierceness  of  manner.     '  You  have 
no  daring!    You  dare  not  love  the  love  that  I  have  chosen  for  you, 
and  you  dare  tell  me  to  my  face  of  such  a  boldness  as  this!     But 
dare  me  not  too  far,  I  warn  you,  Hardress.     You  will  not  find  it 
safe.' 

'  I  dare  tell  the  truth  when  I  am  called  on,'  replied  Hardress, 
who  never  respected  his  mother  so  little  as  in  her  moments  of  passion 
and  authority, '  in  all  places  and  at  all  hazards,  even  including  that 
of  incurring  my  mother's  displeasure.' 

'  Listen  to  me,  Hardress,'  said  his  mother  returning  to  her  seat, 
*  and  endeavouring  to  suppress  her  anger;  '  it  is  better  we  should 
fully  understand  each  other.' 

'  It  is,  mother;  and  I  cannot  choose  a  better  time  to  be  explicit 
than  the  present.  I  was  wrong,  very  wrong,  in  not  taking  an  earlier 
opportunity  of  explaining  to  you  the  circumstances  in  which  I 
stand.  But  it  is  better  even  now  than  later.  Mother,'  he  con- 
tinued, moving  near  to  her  and  taking  her  hand  between  his,  with 
a  deprecating  tenderness  of  manner,  '  forgive  your  own  Hardress! 
I  have  already  fixed  my  affections,  and  pledged  myself  to  another.' 

Mrs.  Cregan  pressed  her  handkerchief  against  her  face,  and 
leaned  forward  on  the  table,  which  position  she  maintained  during 
the  dialogue  which  followed. 

170 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'And  who  is  that  other?'  she  asked  with  a  calmness  that 
astonished  her  son.  'Is  she  superior  to  Anne  Chute  in  rank 
or  fortune?' 

'  Far  otherwise,  mother.' 

'  In  talent,  then,  or  manner  ? ' 

'  Still  far  beneath  my  cousin.' 

'  In  what,  then,  consists  the  motive  of  preference,  for  I  am  at  a 
loss? 

'  In  everything  that  relates  to  acquirement,'  said  Hardress,  '  she 
is  not  even  to  be  compared  to  Anne  Chute.  It  is  in  virtue  alone, 
and  in  gentleness  of  disposition,  that  she  can  pretend  to  an  equality. 
I  once  believed  her  lovelier,  but  I  was  prejudiced.' 

Mrs.  Cregan  now  raised  her  head,  and  showed  by  the  change  in 
her  appearance  what  passionate  struggles  she  had  been  endeavour- 
ing to  overcome.  The  veins  had  started  out  upon  her  forehead, 
a  dull  fire  shone  in  her  eyes,  and  one  dark  tress  of  hair,  uncurled 
by  dampness  and  agitation,  was  swept  across  her  temples.  '  Poor, 
low-born,  silly,  and  vulgar!'  she  repeated  with  an  air  of  perplexity 
and  suppressed  anger.  Then  assuming  an  attitude  of  easy  dignity, 
and  forcing  a  smile,  she  said, '  Oh,  my  dear  Hardress,  you  must  be 
jesting,  for  I  am  sure  you  could  not  make  such  a  choice  as  you 
describe.' 

'  If  it  is  a  misfortune,'  replied  Hardress,  '  I  must  only  summon 
up  my  philosophy,  mother,  for  there  is  no  escaping  it.' 

Mrs.  Cregan  again  pressed  her  hand  upon  her  brow  for  some 
moments,  and  then  said,  '  Well,  Hardress,  let  us  conduct  this  dis- 
cussion calmly.  I  have  got  a  violent  shooting  in  my  head,  and 
cannot  say  so  much  as  I  desire.  But  listen  to  me,  as  I  have  done 
to  you.  My  honour  is  pledged  to  your  cousin  for  the  truth  of 
what  I  have  told  her.  I  have  made  her  certain  that  her  wishes  shall 
be  all  accomplished,  and  I  will  not  have  my  child's  heart  broken. 
If  you  are  serious,  Hardress,  you  have  acted  a  most  dishonourable 
part.  Your  conduct  to  Anne  Chute  would  have  deceived — it  has 
deceived  the  most  unbiassed  amongst  your  acquaintances.  You 
have  paid  her  attentions  which  no  honourable  man  could  offer 
while  he  entertained  only  a  feeling  of  indifference  towards  their 
object.' 

'  Mother!  Mother!  how  can  you  make  such  a  charge  as  that? 
Was  it  not  entirely,  and  reluctantly,  in  compliance  with  your  own 
injunctions,  that  I  did  so  ? ' 

171 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'  Aye,'  replied  Mrs.  Cregan,  a  little  struck, '  but  I  was  not  then 
aware  of  your  position.  Why  did  you  not  then  inform  me  of  all  this  ? 
Let  the  consequences,  sir,  of  your  duplicity  fall  on  your  own  head, 
not  on  my  poor  girl's,  nor  mine.  I  could  not  have  believed  you 
capable  of  such  a  meanness.  Had  you  then  discovered  all,  it  would 
have  been  in  time  for  the  safety  of  your  cousin's  happiness,  and  for 
my  own  honour,  for  that,  too,  is  staked  in  the  issue.  What,  sir? 
Is  your  vanity  so  egregious  that,  for  its  gratification  merely,  you 
would  interfere  with  a  young  girl's  prospects  in  life,  by  filling  up 
the  place  at  her  side  to  which  others,  equal  in  merit  and  more  sincere 
in  their  intentions,  might  have  aspired?  Is  not  that  consideration 
alone  (putting  aside  the  keener  disappointment  to  which  you  have 
subjected  her)  enough  to  make  your  conduct  appear  hideous  ? ' 

The  truth  and  justice  of  this  speech  left  Hardress  without  a 
word. 

'  You  are  already  contracted,  at  every  fireside  in  Kerry  and 
Limerick  also,'  continued  his  mother,  '  and  I  am  determined  that 
there  shall  be  no  whispering  about  my  own  sweet  Anne.  You  must 
perform  the  promise  that  your  conduct  has  given.' 

'  And  my  engagement  ? — ' 

'  Break  it  off!'  exclaimed  Mrs.  Cregan,  with  a  burst  of  anger, 
scarcely  modified  by  her  feeling  of  decorum.  '  If  you  have  been 
base  enough  to  make  a  double  pledge,  and  if  there  must  be  a  victim, 
I  am  resolved  it  shall  not  be  Anne  Chute.  I  must  not  have  to 
reproach  myself  with  having  bound  her  for  the  sacrifice.  Now  take 
your  choice.  I  tell  you  I  had  rather  die,  nay,  I  had  rather  see  you 
in  your  coffin  than  matched  below  your  rank.  You  are  yet  unable 
to  cater  for  your  own  happiness,  and  you  would  assuredly  lay  up  a 
fund  of  misery  for  all  your  coming  years.  Now,  take  your  choice. 
If  you  wed  as  I  desire,  you  shall  have  all  the  happiness  that  rank, 
and  wealth,  and  honour,  and  domestic  affection,  can  secure  you. — 
If  against  my  wish — if  you  resist  me,  enjoy  your  vulgar  taste,  and 
add  to  it  all  the. wretchedness  that  extreme  poverty  can  furnish,  for 
whether  I  live  or  die  (as  indeed  I  shall  be  careless  on  that  subject 
henceforward),  you  never  shall  possess  a  guinea  of  your  inheritance. 
So  now,  take  your  choice.' 

'  It  is  already  made,'  said  Hardress,  rising  with  a  mournful 
dignity,  and  moving  towards  the  door.  '  My  fortunes  are  already 
decided,  whatever  way  my  inclinations  move.  Farewell,  then, 
mother.  I  am  grateful  to  you  for  all  your  former  kindness,  but  it 

172 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

is  impossible  that  I  can  please  you  in  this.  As  to  the  poverty 
with  which  you  intend  to  punish  me,  I  can  face  that  consequence 
without  much  anxiety,  after  I  have  ventured  to  incur  the  hazard 
of  your  anger.' 

He  was  already  at  the  door  when  his  mother  recalled  him  with 
a  softened  voice.  '  Hardress,'  she  said,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  '  I 
mistake  my  heart  entirely.  It  cannot  afford  to  lose  a  son  so  easily. 
Come  hither  and  sit  by  me,  my  own  beloved  boy.  You  know  not, 
Hardress,  how  I  have  loved,  and  love  you.  Why  will  you  anger 
me,  my  child?  I  never  angered  you,  even  when  you  were  an  infant 
at  my  bosom.  I  never  denied  you  anything  in  all  my  life.  I  never 
gave  you  a  hard  word,  or  look,  since  you  were  a  child  in  my  arms. 
What  have  I  done  to  you,  Hardress?  Even  supposing  that  I  have 
acted  with  any  rashness  in  this,  why  will  you  insist  on  my  suffering 
for  it?' 

'  My  dear  mother — ' 

'  If  you  knew  how  I  have  loved  you,  Hardress;  but  you  can 
never  know  it,  for  it  was  shown  most  frequently  and  fondly  when 
you  were  incapable  of  acknowledging  or  appreciating  it.  If  you 
knew  how  disinterestedly  I  have  watched  and  laboured  for  your 
happiness,  even  from  your  boyhood,  you  would  not  so  calmly  resign 
your  mind  to  the  idea  of  such  a  separation.  Come,  Hardress,  we 
must  yet  be  friends.  I  do  not  press  you  for  an  immediate  answer, 
but  tell  me  you  will  think  of  it,  and  think  more  kindly.  Bid  me  but 
smile  on  Anne  when  I  meet  her  next.  Nay,  don't  look  troubled,  I 
shall  not  speak  to  her  until  I  have  your  answer;  I  will  only  smile 
upon  her — that's  my  darling  Hardress.' 

'  But,  mother—' 

'  Not  one  word  more.  At  least,  Hardress,  my  wishes  are  worth 
a  little  consideration.  Look  there!'  she  suddenly  exclaimed, 
laying  her  hand  on  the  arm  of  her  son,  and  pointing  through  the 
open  window,  '  is  that  not  worth  a  little  consideration  ? ' 

Hardress  looked  in  that  direction,  and  beheld  a  sight  which 
might  have  proved  dangerous  to  the  resolution  of  a  more  self- 
regulated  spirit.  It  was  the  figure  of  his  cousin  standing  under  the 
shade  of  a  lofty  arbutus  (a  tree  which  acknowledges  Killarney 
alone,  of  all  our  Northern  possessions,  for  its  natal  region).  A  few 
streaks  of  the  golden  sunshine  streamed  in  upon  her  figure  through 
the  boughs,  and  quivered  over  the  involutions  of  her  drapery. 
She  was  without  a  bonnet,  and  her  short  black  ringlets,  blown 

173 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

loose  about  her  rather  pale  and  careful  countenance,  gave  it  some- 
what of  the  character  of  an  Ariadne,  or  a  Penthesilea.  She  walked 
towards  the  house,  and  every  motion  of  her  frame  seemed  instinct 
with  a  natural  intelligence.  Hardress  could  not  (without  a  nobler 
effort  than  he  would  use)  remove  his  eyes  from  this  beautiful  vision, 
until  a  turn  in  the  gravel-walk  concealed  it  from  his  view,  and  it 
disappeared  among  the  foliage,  as  a  lustrous  star  is  lost  in  a  mass 
of  autumnal  clouds. 

'  Mother,'  said  Hardress,  '  I  will  think  on  what  you  have  said. 
May  Heaven  defend  and  guide  me!  I  am  a  miserable  wretch, 
but  I  will  think  of  it.  Oh,  mother,  my  dear  mother,  if  I  had  con- 
fided in  you,  or  you  in  me!  Why  have  we  been  thus  secret  to  each 
other?  But  pardon  me!  It  is  I  alone  that  am  deserving  of  that 
reproach,  for  you  were  contriving  for  my  happiness  only.  Happi- 
ness! What  a  vain  word  that  is!  I  never  shall  be  happy  more! 
Never  indeed!  I  have  destroyed  my  fortunes.' 

'  Hush,  boy,  I  hear  Anne's  foot  upon  the  lobby.  I  told  her  you 
would  walk  with  her  to-day.' 

*  Me  walk  with  her  ? '  said  Hardress  with  a  shudder.  '  No,  no, 
I  cannot,  mother.  It  would  be  wrong.  I  dare  not,  indeed.' 

'  Dare  not  again  ? '  said  Mrs.  Cregan,  smiling.  '  Come,  come, 
forget  this  conversation  for  the  present,  and  consider  it  again  at 
your  leisure.' 

'  I  will,  I  will  think  of  it,'  repeated  the  young  man,  with  some 
wildness  of  manner.  '  May  heaven  defend  and  guide  me!  I  am 
a  wretch  already.' 

'  Hush!  hush!'  said  his  mother,  who  did  not  attach  too  much 
importance  to  those  exclamations  of  mental  distress;  '  you  must 
not  let  your  mistress  hear  you  praying  in  that  way,  or  she  will 
suppose  she  has  frightened  you.' 

'  My  mistress,  mother!' 

'Pooh,  pooh!  your  cousin,  then.  Don't  look  so  terrified.  Well, 
Hardress,  I  am  obliged  to  you.' 

'  Aye,  mother,  but  don't  be  misled  by — ' 

'  Oh,  be  in  no  pain  for  that.  I  understand  you  perfectly.  Re- 
main here,  and  I  will  send  your  cousin  to  you  in  a  few  minutes.' 

It  would  have  at  once  put  an  end  to  all  discussion  of  this  subject, 
if  Hardress  had  informed  his  mother  that  he  was  in  fact  already 
married.  He  was  aware  of  this,  and  yet  he  could  not  tell  her  that 
it  was  so.  It  was  not  that  he  feared  her  anger,  for  that  he  had 

174 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

already  dared.  He  knew  that  he  was  called  on  in  honour,  in 
justice,  and  in  conscience,  to  make  his  parent  aware  of  the  full 
extent  of  his  position,  and  yet  he  shunned  the  avowal,  as  he  would 
have  done  a  sentence  of  despair. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

HOW  THE  TEMPTATION  OF  HARDRESS  PROCEEDED 

DURING  the  few  weeks  that  followed  the  conversation  just 
detailed,  Eily  perceived  a  rapid  and  a  fearful  change  in  the 
temper  and  appearance  of  her  husband.  His  visits  were  fewer 
and  shorter  than  before,  and  when  he  did  come,  his  manner  was 
restrained  and  conscious  in  an  extraordinary  degree.  His  eye 
looked  troubled,  his  voice  was  deep  and  broken,  his  cheek  grew 
pale  and  fleshless,  and  a  gloomy  air,  which  might  be  supposed  to  be 
the  mingled  result  of  discontent  and  dissipation,  appeared  in  all  his 
person.  He  no  longer  conversed  with  that  noisy  frankness  and 
gaiety  which  he  was  accustomed  to  indulge  in  all  societies  where 
he  felt  perfectly  at  his  ease.  To  Eily  he  spoke  sometimes  with 
coldness  and  impatience,  and  very  often  with  a  wild  affection  that 
had  in  it  as  much  of  grief  as  of  tenderness.  To  the  other  inmates 
of  the  cottage  he  was  altogether  reserved  and  haughty,  and  even 
his  own  boatman  seldom  cared  to  tempt  him  into  a  conversation. 
Sometimes  Eily  was  inclined  to  think  that  he  had  escaped  from 
some  unpleasing  scenes  at  home,  his  demeanour  during  the  evening 
was  so  abstracted  and  so  full  of  care.  On  other  occasions,  when 
he  came  to  her  cottage  late  at  night,  she  was  shocked  to  discover 
about  him  the  appearances  of  a  riotous  indulgence.  Born  and 
educated  as  she  was  in  the  Ireland  of  the  eighteenth  century,  this 
circumstance  would  not  have  much  disturbed  the  mind  of  our 
heroine,  but  that  it  became  gradually  more  frequent  of  occurrence, 
and  seemed  rather  to  indicate  a  voluntary  habit  than  that  necessity 
to  which  even  sober  people  were  often  subjected,  when  they  .mingled 
in  the  society  of  Irish  country  gentlemen  of  that  period.  Eily  thus 
experienced,  for  the  first  time,  and  with  an  aching  spirit,  one  of  the 
keenest  anxieties  of  married  life. 

'  Hardress,'  she  said  to  him  one  morning  when  he  was  preparing 

175 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

to  depart,  after  an  interval  of  gloomy  silence,  long  unbroken,  '  I 
won't  let  you  go  among  those  fine  ladies  any  more,  if  you  be  think- 
ing of  them  always  when  you  come  to  me  again.' 

Her  husband  started  like  one  conscience-struck,  and  looked 
sharply  round  upon  her. 

'  What  do  you  mean?'  he  said,  with  a  slight  contraction  of  the 
brows. 

'  Just  what  I  say,  then,'  said  Eily,  smiling  and  nodding  her  head, 
with  a  pretty  affectation  of  authority.  '  Those  fine  ladies  musn't 
take  you  from  Eily.  And  I'll  tell  you  another  thing,  Hardress! 
whisper!'  She  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  raised  herself  on 
tiptoe,  and  murmured  in  his  ear,  '  I'll  not  let  you  among  the  fine 
gentlemen  either,  if  that's  the  teaching  they  give  you.' 

1  What  teaching?' 

'  Oh,  you  know  yourself,'  Eily  continued,  nodding  and  smiling; 
'  it  is  a  teaching  that  you  would  never  learn  from  Eily  if  you  spent 
the  evenings  with  her  as  you  used  to  do  in  the  beginning.  Do  you 
know  is  there  e'er  a  priest  living  in  this  neighbourhood  ? ' 

'  Why  do  you  ask?' 

'  Because  I  have  something  to  tell  him  that  lies  upon  my  con- 
science.' 

'  And  would  you  not  confess  your  failings  to  an  affectionate 
friend,  Eily,  as  well  as  to  a  holier  director?' 

'  I  would,'  said  Eily,  bending  on  him  a  look  of  piercing  sweet- 
ness, '  if  I  thought  he  would  forgive  me  afterwards,  as  readily.' 

'  Provided  always  that  you  are  a  true  penitent,'  returned  Hardress, 
reaching  her  his  hand. 

'  There  is  little  fear  of  that,'  said  Eily.  '  It  would  be  well  for  me, 
Hardress,  if  I  could  as  easily  be  penitent  for  heavier  sins.' 

After  a  moment's  deep  thought,  Eily  resumed  her  playful  manner, 
and  placing  both  her  hands  in  the  still  expanded  one  of  her  husband 
she  continued:  '  Well  then,  sir,  I'll  tell  you  what's  troubling  me. 
I'm  afraid  I'm  going  wrong  entirely,  this  time  back.  I  got  married, 
sir,  a  couple  o'  months  ago,  to  one  Mr.  Hardress  Cregan,  a  very 
nice  gentleman,  that  I'm  very  fond  of.' 

'  Too  fond,  perhaps?' 

'  I'm  afraid  so,  rightly  speaking,  although  I  hope  he  doesn't  think 
so.  But  he  told  me  when  he  brought  me  down  to  Killarney,  that 
he  was  going  to  speak  to  his  friends '  (the  brow  of  the  listener 
darkened)  '  and  to  ask  their  forgiveness  for  himself  and  Eily.  And 

176 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

there's  nearly  two  months  now,  since  I  came,  and  what  I  have  to 
charge  myself  with,  sir,  is,  that  I  am  too  fond  of  my  husband,  and 
that  I  don't  like  to  vex  him  by  speaking  about  it,  as  maybe  it  would 
be  my  duty  to  do.  And,  besides,  I  don't  keep  my  husband  to 
proper  order  at  all.  I  let  him  stop  out  sometimes  for  many  days 
together,  and  then  I'm  very  angry  with  him,  but  when  he  comes, 
I'm  so  foolish  and  so  glad  to  see  him,  that  I  can't  look  cross,  or 
speak  a  hard  word,  if  I  was  to  get  all  Ireland  for  it.  And  more 
than  that,  again;  I'm  not  at  all  sure  how  he  spends  his  time  while 
he  is  out,  and  I  don't  ever  question  him  properly  about  it.  I  know 
there  are  a  great  many  handsome  young  ladies  where  he  goes  to, 
and  a  deal  of  gentlemen  that  are  very  pleasant  company  after 
dinner,  for  indeed  my  husband  is  often  more  merry  than  wise,  when 
he  comes  home  to  me  late  at  night,  and  still  Eily  says  nothing.  And 
besides  all  this,  I  think  my  husband  has  something  weighing  upon 
his  mind,  and  I  don't  make  him  tell  it  to  me,  as  a  good  wife  ought 
to  do,  and  I'd  like  to  have  a  friend's  advice,  as  you're  good  enough 
to  offer  it,  sir,  to  know  what  I'd  do.  What  do  you  think  about 
him,  sir  ?  Do  you  think  any  of  the  ladies  has  taken  his  fancy  ?  Or 
do  you  think  he's  growing  tired  of  Eily?  Or  thatjie  doesn't  think 
so  much  of  her  now  that  he  knows  her  better?  What  would 
you  advise  me  to  do?' 

'  I  am  rather  at  a  loss,'  said  Hardress,  with  some  bitterness  in 
his  accent;  '  it  is  so  difficult  to  advise  a  jealous  person.' 

'Jealous!'  exclaimed  Eily  with  a  slight  blush;  'ah,  now  I'm 
sorry  I  came  to  you  at  all,  for  I  see  you  know  nothing  about  me, 
since  you  think  that's  the  way.  I  see  now  that  you  don't  know 
how  to  advise  me  at  all,  and  I'll  leave  you  there.  What  would  I  be 
jealous  of  ? ' 

'  Why,  of  those  handsome  young  ladies  that  your  husband  visits.' 

'  Ah,  if  I  was  jealous  that  way,'  said  Eily,  with  a  keen  and  serious 
smile, '  that  isn't  the  way  I'd  show  it.' 

'How  then,  Eily?' 

'  Why,  first  of  all,  I  wouldn't  as  much  as  think  of  such  a  thing, 
without  the  greatest  reason  in  the  world,  without  being  downright 
sure  of  it,  and  if  I  got  that  reason,  nobody  would  ever  know  it,  for 
I  wouldn't  say  a  word,  only  walk  into  that  room  there,  and  stretch 
upon  the  bed,  and  die.' 

'  Why,  that's  what  many  a  brutal  husband,  in  such  a  case,  would 
exactly  desire.' 

177 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'  So  itself,'  said  Eily,  with  a  flushed  and  kindling  cheek — '  so 
itself.  I  wouldn't  be  long  in  his  way,  I'll  engage.' 

'  Well,  then,'  Hardress  said,  rising  and  addressing  her  with  a 
severe  solemnity  of  manner,  '  my  advice  to  you  is  this.  As  long 
as  you  live,  never  presume  to  inquire  into  your  husband's  secrets, 
nor  affect  an  influence  which  he  never  will  admit.  And  if  you  wish 
to  avoid  that  great  reason  for  jealousy  of  which  you  stand  in  fear, 
avoid  suffering  the  slightest  suspicion  to  appear;  for  men  are 
stubborn  beings,  and  when  such  suspicions  are  wantonly  set  afloat, 
they  find  the  temptation  to  furnish  them  with  a  cause  almost 
irresistible.' 

*  Well,  Hardress,'  said  Eily,  '  you  are  angry  with  me,  after  all. 
Didn't  you  say  you  would  forgive  me?  Oh,  then,  I'll  engage  I'd 
be  very  sorry  to  say  anything,  if  I  thought  you'd  be  this  way.' 

'  I  am  not  angry,'  said  Hardress,  in  a  tone  of  vexation.  '  I  do 
forgive  you,'  he  added  in  an  accent  of  sharp  reproof.  '  I  spoke 
entirely  for  your  own  sake.' 

'  And  wouldn't  Hardress  allow  his  own  Eily  her  little  joke?' 

'  Joke!'  exclaimed  Hardress,  bursting  into  a  sudden  passion, 
which  made  his  eyes  water,  and  his  limbs  shake  as  if  they  would 
have  sunk  beneath  him.  '  Am  I  become  the  subject  of  your  mirth  ? 
Day  after  day  my  brain  is  verging  nearer  and  nearer  to  utter  mad- 
ness, and  do  you  jest  on  that  ?  Do  you  see  this  cheek  ?  You  count 
more  hollows  there  than  when  I  met  you  first,  and  does  that  make 
you  merry?  Give  me  your  hand!  Do  you  feel  how  that  heart 
beats?  Is  that  a  subject,  Eily,  for  joke  or  jest?  Do  you  think 
this  face  turns  thin  and  yellow  for  nothing  ?  There  are  a  thousand 
and  a  thousand  horrid  thoughts  and  temptations  burning  within  me 
daily,  and  eating  my  flesh  away  by  inches.  The  devil  is  laughing 
at  me,  and  Eily  joins  him.' 

'  Oh,  Hardress — Hardress! — ' 

'  Yes! — you  have  the  best  right  to  laugh,  for  you  are  the  gainer. 
Curse  on  you!  Curse  on  your  beauty — curse  on  my  own  folly — 
for  I  have  been  undone  by  both!  Let  go  my  knees!  Let  go  my 
arm!  I  hate  you!  Take  the  truth,  I'll  not  be  poisoned  with  it. 
I  am  sick  of  you,  you  have  disgusted  me!  I  will  ease  my  heart  by 
telling  you  the  whole.  If  I  seek  the  society  of  other  women,  it  is 
because  I  find  not  among  them  your  meanness  and  vulgarity. 
If  I  get  drunk,  and  make  myself  the  beast  you  say,  it  is  in  the 
hope  to  forget  the  iron  chain  that  binds  me  to  you!' 

178 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'  Oh,  Hardress,'  shrieked  the  affrighted  girl,  '  you  are  not  in 
earnest  now?' 

'  I  am!  /  do  not  joke!'  her  husband  exclaimed  with  a  hoarse 
vehemence.  '  Let  go  my  knees!  you  are  sure  enough  of  me.  I 
am  bound  to  you  too  firmly.' 

'  Oh,  my  dear  Hardress!  Oh,  my  own  husband,  listen  to  me! 
Hear  your  own  Eily  for  one  moment!  Oh,  my  poor  father! ' 

'Ha!' 

'  It  slipped  from  me!  Forgive  me!  I  know  I  am  to  blame,  I 
am  greatly  to  blame,  dear  Hardress,  but  forgive  me!  I  left  my 
home  and  all  for  you — oh,  do  not  cast  me  off!  I  will  do  anything 
to  please  you,  I  never  will  open  my  lips  again — only  say  you  did  not 
mean  all  that!  Oh,  heaven!'  she  continued,  throwing  her  head 
back,  and  looking  upward  with  expanded  mouth  and  eyes,  while 
she  maintained  her  kneeling  posture  and  clasped  her  husband's 
feet.  '  Merciful  heaven,  direct  him!  Oh,  Hardress,  think 
how  far  I  am  from  home!  think  of  all  you  promised  me,  and  how 
I  believed  you !  Stay  with  me  for  a  while  at  any  rate !  Do  not — ' 

On  a  sudden,  while  Hardress  was  still  struggling  to  free  himself 
from  her  arms,  without  doing  her  a  violence,  Eily  felt  a  swimming 
in  her  head,  and  a  cloud  upon  her  sight.  The  next  instant  she 
was  motionless. 

The  first  face  which  she  beheld  on  recovering  from  her  insen- 
sibility was  that  of  Poll  Naughten,  who  was  seated  in  a  low  chair, 
and  supporting  Eily's  head  against  her  knees,  while  she  was  striking 
her  in  the  open  palm  with  a  prodigious  violence. 

'  Ah,  there  she  dhraws  the  breath,'  said  Fighting  Poll.  '  Oh, 
wirra,  missiz,  what  brought  you  out  on  your  face  and  hands  in  the 
middle  of  the  floore,  that  way?' 

Eily  muttered  some  unmeaning  answer,  and  remained  for  some 
minutes  struggling  with  the  consciousness  of  some  undefined  horror. 
Looking  around  at  length,  and  missing  the  figure  of  Hardress,  she 
lay  back  once  more,  and  burst  into  a  fit  of  hysterical  weeping. 
Phil  Naughten,  who  was  smoking  a  short  pipe  by  the  fireside, 
said  something  in  Irish  to  his  wife,  to  which  the  latter  replied 
in  the  same  language,  and  then  turning  to  Eily,  said: 

<  Will   you  take  a  dhrop  of  anything,  a-chree  ? ' 

Eily  raised  her  hand  in  dissent. 

'  Will  you  come  in,  and  take  a  sthretch  on  the  bed  then  ? ' 

To  this  Eily  answered  in  the  affirmative,  and  walked  with  the 

179 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

assistance  of  her  hostess  into  her  sleeping  chamber.  Here  she  lay 
during' the  remainder  of  the  day,  the  curtain  suffered  to  fall  so  as  to 
keep  the  broad  sunshine  from  her  aching  eyes  and  head.  Her 
reflections,  however,  on  the  frightful  and  sudden  alteration  which 
had  taken  place  in  her  condition  were  cut  short,  ere  long,  by  a  sleep, 
of  that  sound  and  dreamless  nature  which  usually  supervenes  after 
an  excess  of  passionate  excitement  or  anxiety. 

In  the  meantime  Hardress  hurried  along  the  Gap  road  with  the 
speed  of  one  who  desires  to  counteract  by  extreme  bodily  exertion 
the  turbulence  of  an  uneasy  spirit.  As  he  passed  the  lonely  little 
bridge,  which  crosses  the  stream  above  the  Black  Lake,  his  attention 
was  suddenly  arrested  by  the  sound  of  a  familiar  voice  which  ap- 
peared to  reach  him  from  the  clouds.  Looking  over  his  shoulder 
to  the  summit  of  the  Purple  Mountain,  he  beheld  Danny  Mann, 
nearly  a  thousand  feet  above  him,  moving  toward  the  immense 
pile  of  loose  stones  (from  the  hue  of  which  the  mountain  had  derived 
its  name),  and  driving  before  him  a  small  herd  of  goats,  the  property 
of  his  brother-in-law.  Turning  off  the  road,  Hardress  commenced 
the  assent  of  this  toilsome  eminence,  partly  because  the  difficulty 
afforded  a  relief  to  his  spirits,  and  partly  because  he  wished  to 
converse  with  his  dependent. 

Although  the  day  was  fine,  and  sometimes  cheered  with  sunshine 
near  the  base  of  the  mountain,  its  summit  was  wrapped  in  mist, 
and  wet  with  incessant  showers.  The  scenery  around  was  solitary, 
gigantic,  and  sternly  barren.  The  figure  of  some  wonder-hunting 
tourist,  with  a  guide-boy  bearing  his  portfolio  and  umbrella,  ap- 
peared at  long  intervals,  among  the  lesser  undulations  of  the  moun- 
tain-side, and  the  long  road,  which  traversed  the  gloomy  valley, 
dwindled  to  the  width  of  a  meadow  footpath.  On  the  opposite 
side  of  the  enormous  ravine,  the  grey  and  misty  Reeks  still  raised 
their  crumbling  summits  far  above  him.  Masses  of  white  mist 
gathered  in  sullen  congress  between  their  peaks,  and,  sometimes 
floating  upward  in  large  volumes,  were  borne  majestically  onward, 
catching  a  thousand  tints  of  gold  and  purple  from  the  declining 
sun.  Sometimes  a  trailing  shower,  of  mingled  mist  and  rain, 
would  sweep  across  the  intervening  chasm,  like  the  sheeted  spectre 
of  a  giant,  and  present  to  the  eye  of  the  spectator  that  appearance 
which  supplied  the  imagination  of  Ossian  with  its  romantic  images. 
The  mighty  gorge  itself,  at  one  end,  appeared  to  be  lost  and  divided 
amid  a  host  of  mountains  tossed  together  in  provoking  gloom  and 

1 80 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

mystery.  Lower  down,  it  opened  upon  a  wide  and  cultivated 
champaign,  which,  at  this  altitude,  presented  the  resemblance  of  a 
rich  mosaic,  of  a  thousand  colours,  and  afforded  a  bright  contrast 
to  the  barren  and  shrubless  gloom  of  the  solitary  vale  itself.  As 
Hardress  approached  the  summit,  this  scene  of  grandeur  and  of 
beauty  was  shut  out  from  his  view  by  the  intervening  mist,  which 
left  nothing  visible  but  the  peak  on  which  he  stood,  and  which 
looked  like  a  barren  islet  in  a  sea  of  vapour.  Above  him  was  a 
blue  sky,  broken  up  with  masses  of  cloud  against  which  the  rays 
of  the  sun  were  refracted,  with  various  effect,  according  to  their 
degrees  of  density  and  altitude.  Occasionally,  as  Hardress  pressed 
onward  through  the  heath,  a  heavy  grouse  would  spring  up  at  his 
feet,  challenge,  and  wheel  to  the  other  side  of  the  mountain.  Some- 
times, also,  as  he  looked  downward,  a  passing  gust  of  wind  would 
draw  aside  the  misty  veil  that  lay  between  him  and  the  world,  and 
cause  the  picture  once  more  to  open  on  his  sight. 

His  attendant  now  met,  and  greeted  him  as  usual.  '  It's  well 
for  you,  Master  Hardress,  dat  hasn't  a  flock  o'  goats  to  be  hunting 
after  dis  mornin'; — my  heart  is  broke  from  'em,  dat's  what  it  is. 
We  turn  'em  out  in  de  mornin',  and  dough  dey  have  plenty  to  ate 
below  dere,  dey  never  stop  till  dey  go  to  de  top  o'  de  mountain; 
nothing  less  would  do  for  'em;  like  many  o'  de  Christians  dem- 
selves,  dey'll  be  mounting  always,  even  when  'tis  no  good  for  'em.' 

'  I  have  no  remedy,'  said  Hardress,  musing, '  and  yet  the  thought 
of  enduring  such  a  fate  is  intolerable.' 

'  What  a  fine  day  dis  would  be  for  de  water,  master  ? '  continued 
his  servant.  '  You  don't  ever  care  to  take  a  sail  now,  sir?' 

'  Oh,  Kyrle!  Kyrle  Daly,  what  a  prophetic  truth  was  in  your 
words!  Giddy,  headlong  wretch  that  I  have  been!  I  wish  that 
my  feet  had  grown  to  my  mother's  hearth  when  I  first  thought  of 
evading  her  control,  and  marrying  without  her  sanction.'  He 
paused  in  a  mood  of  bitter  retrospection.  '  I'll  not  endure  it!'  he 
again  exclaimed,  starting  from  his  reverie;  '  it  shall  not  be  without 
recall.  I  will  not,  because  I  cannot.  Monster!  monster,  that  I 
am!  Wed  one,  and  woo  another!  Both  now  are  cheated!  Which 
shall  be  the  victim  ? ' 

The  devil  was  at  his  ear,  and  whispered,  'Be  not  uneasy,  hundreds 
have  done  the  same  before  you.' 

'  Firm  as  dat  mountain  stands,  an'  as  it  stood  dis  hundred,  aye, 
dis  tousand  year,  maybe,'  continued  Danny  Mann,  '  still  an'  all, 

181 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

to  look  up  dat  way  at  dem  great  loose  stones,  dat  look  as  if  dey 
were  shovelled  up  above  us  by  some  joyants  or  great  people  of  ould, 
a  body  would  tink  it  hardly  safe  to  stand  here  onder  'em,  in  dread 
dey'd  come  tumblin'  down,  maybe,  an'  make  smiddereens,  bless 
de  mark!  Wouldn't  he  now,  Master  Hardress?' 

The  person  so  addressed  turned  his  eyes  mechanically  in  the 
same  direction.  A  kind  of  desperate  satisfaction  was  visible  on 
his  features,  as  the  idea  of  insecurity,  which  his  servant  suggested, 
became  impressed  upon  his  mind.  The  latter  perceived  and  under- 
stood its  expression  on  the  instant. 

'  Dere's  something  troublin'  you,  Master  Hardress;  dat  I  see 
plain  enough.  An'  'tisn't  now,  nor  to-day,  nor  'isterday,  I  see  it, 
aider.  Is  dere  anyting  Danny  Mann  can  do  to  sarve  you  ?  If  dere 
be,  say  de  word  dis  moment,  an'  I'll  be  bail  he'll  do  it  before  long.' 

'  Danny,'  said  Hardress  after  a  pause, '  I  am  troubled.  I  was  a 
fool,  Danny,  when  I  refused  to  listen  to  your  advice  upon  one 
occasion.' 

'  An'  dat  was  de  time  when  I  tould  you  not  to  go  again'  de  missiz, 
an'  to  have  no  call  to  Eily  O'Connor.' 

'  It  was.' 

'  I  tought  it  would  be  dis  way.  I  tought,  all  along,  dat  Eily  was 
no  wife  for  you,  Master  Hardress.  It  was  not  in  natur'  she  could 
be — a  poor  man's  daughter,  widout  money,  or  manners,  or  book- 
larnen',  or  one  ha'p'ort'.  I  told  you  dat,  Master  Hardress,  but  you 
wouldn't  hear  me,  be  any  means,  an'  dis  is  de  way  of  it  now.' 

'  Well,  well,  'tis  done,  'tis  done,'  said  Hardress,  with  sullen  im- 
patience. '  I  was  to  blame,  Danny,  and  I  am  suffering  for  it.' 

'  Does  she  know  herself  de  trouble  she  is  to  you  ? ' 

'  I  could  not  keep  it  from  her.  I  did  not  know,  myself,  how 
utterly  my  dislike  had  prevailed  within  me,  until  the  occasion  arose 
for  giving  it  utterance,  and  then  it  came  forth,  at  once,  like  a  torrent. 
I  told  her  what  I  felt;  that  I  hated,  that  I  was  sick  of  her!  I  could 
not  stop  my  tongue.  My  heart  struck  me  for  the  base  unkindness, 
the  ungrateful  ruffianism  of  my  speech,  and  yet  I  could  not  stop  my 
tongue.  I  have  made  her  miserable,  and  I  am  myself  accursed. 
What  is  there  to  be  done  ?  Have  you  only  skill  to  prevent  mischief  ? 
Have  you  none  to  remedy  ? ' 

Danny  took  thought  for  a  moment.  '  Sorrow  trouble  would  I 
ever  give  myself  about  her,'  he  said  at  last,  'only  send  her  home 
packin'  to  her  fader,  an'  give  her  no  thanks.' 

182 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'  And  with  what  face  should  I  appear  before  my  honourable 
friends,  when  that  old  ropemaker  should  come  to  demand  redress 
for  his  insulted  child,  and  to  claim  her  husband's  promise  ?  Should 
I  send  Eily  home,  to  earn  for  myself  the  reputation  of  a  faithless 
villain  ? ' 

'  I  never  tought  o'  dat,'  said  Danny,  nodding  his  head.  '  Dat's 
a  horse  of  anoder  colour.  Why,  den,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  Pay 
her  passage  out  to  Quaybec,  and  put  her  aboord  of  a  three-master, 
widout  ever  sayin'  a  word  to  anybody.  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is, 
Master  Hardress.  Do  by  her  as  you'd  do  by  that  glove  you  have 
on  your  hand.  Make  it  come  off  as  well  as  it  come  on,  and  if  it  fits 
too  tight,  take  de  knife  to  it.' 

'  What  do  you  mean  ? ' 

'  Only  gi'  me  de  word,  as  I  said  before,  an'  I'll  engage  Eily 
O'Connor  will  never  trouble  you  any  more.  Don't  ax  me  any 
questions  at  all,  only  if  you're  agreeable,  take  off  dat  glove  an'  give 
it  to  me  for  a  token.  Dat'll  be  enough.  Lave  de  rest  to  Danny.' 

A  doubtful,  horrible  sensation  of  fear  and  anxiety  gathered  upon 
the  heart  of  the  listener,  and  held  him  for  a  minute  fixed  in  breathless 
expectation.  He  gazed  upon  the  face  of  his  servant  with  an  ex- 
pression of  gaping  terror,  as  if  he  stood  in  the  presence  of  the  Arch 
Tempter  himself.  At  length  he  walked  up  to  the  latter,  laid  his 
open  hand  upon  his  neck,  and  then  drawing  his  fingers  close,  until 
the  fellow's  face  was  purple  with  blood,  he  shook  him  as  if  he  would 
have  shaken  his  joints  out  of  their  sockets. 

'  Villain! '  he  exclaimed,  with  a  hoarseness  and  vehemence  of  tone, 
which  gave  an  appalling  depth  to  his  expressions.  '  Dangerous 
villain  and  tempter!  If  you  ever  dare  again  to  utter  a  word,  or 
meditate  a  thought  of  violence  towards  that  unhappy  creature,  I 
will  tear  you  limb  from  limb  between  my  hands ! ' 

'  Oh,  murder,  Master  Hardress!  Dat  de  hands  may  stick  to  me, 
sir,  if  I  tought  a  ha'p'ort'  o'  harm!' 

'  Do  you  mark  me  well,  now?  I  am  quite  in  earnest.  Respect 
her,  as  you  would  the  highest  lady  in  the  land.  Do  as  she  commands 
you,  without  murmuring.  If  I  hear  her  say  (and  I  will  question  her 
upon  it)  that  you  have  leered  one  glance  of  those  blood-longing 
eyes  upon  her,  it  shall  be  their  last  look  in  this  world.' 

'  Oh,  vo!     Dat  I  may  never  die  in  sin,  Master  Hardress,  if — ' 

'  Begone!  I  am  glad  you  have  opened  my  eyes.  I  tread  more 
safely  now,  My  heart  is  lighter!  Yet  that  I  should  have  endured 

183 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

to  be  so  tempted!  Fellow,  I  doubt  you  for  worse  than  you  appear! 
We  are  here  alone;  the  world,  the  busy  world,  is  hid  beneath  us, 
and  we  stand  here  alone  in  the  eye  of  the  open  heaven,  and  without 
roof  or  wall  to  screen  us,  even  in  fancy,  from  the  downright  reproach 
of  the  beholding  angels  None  but  the  haughty  and  insulting 
Lucifer  himself  could  think  of  daring  Providence  upon  the  threshold 
of  his  own  region.  But  be  you  fiend  or  mortal,  I  defy  and  dare  you! 
I  repel  your  bloody  temptation!  I  tell  you,  fiend  or  mortal,  that 
my  soul  abhors  your  speech  and  gesture  both.  I  may  be  wretched 
and  impious;  I  may  send  up  to  heaven  a  cry  of  discontent  and 
murmuring;  the  cry  of  blood  shall  never  leave  this  earth  for  me. 
Blood!  Whose  blood?  Hers?  Great  heaven!  Great  heaven 
defend  me!'  He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  bent  down 
for  a  moment  in  dreadful  agitation;  then  suddenly  starting  up,  and 
waving  his  hand  rapidly,  he  continued,  'Away!  away  at  once,  and 
quit  my  sight.  I  have  chosen  my  doom.  My  heart  may  burn  for 
years  within  my  breast,  if  I  can  find  no  other  way  to  soothe  it.  I 
know  how  to  endure;  I  am  wholly  ignorant  of  guilt  like  this.  Once 
more,'  he  added,  clenching  his  fist,  and  shaking  it  towards  his 
startled  dependent,  '  once  more,  I  warn  you,  mark  my  words,  and 
obey  them.' 

So  saying,  he  hurried  down  the  hill,  and  was  hid  in  the  ascending 
mist;  while  his  affrighted  servant  remained  gaping  after  him  and 
muttering  mechanically  such  asseverations  as:  'Dat  I  may  never 
sin,  Master  Hardress!  Dat  de  head  may  go  to  de  grave  wit'  me! 
Dat  I  may  be  happy!  Dat  de  hands  may  stick  to  me,  if  I  tought 
any  harm ! ' 

More  than  half  of  the  frantic  speech  of  Hardress,  it  may  be 
readily  imagined,  was  wholly  unintelligible  to  Danny,  who  followed 
him  down  the  mountain,  half  crazed  with  terror,  and  not  a  little 
choked  into  the  bargain. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

HOW  AN   UNEXPECTED   VISITOR  ARRIVED   IN  EILY'S   COTTAGE 

TOWARDS  nightfall  Eily   awoke,  with  that  confused  and 
strange  feeling  which  a  person  experiences  who  has  slept 
at  an  unaccustomed  hour.    The  sun  had  already  set;   but  the  red 

184 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

and  faintly  lustrous  shadow  of  her  window,  which  was  thrown  on 
the  opposing  wall,  showed  that  his  refracted  light  was  yet  strong 
and  bright  on  the  horizon.  While  she  lay  back  endeavouring  to 
recall  the  circumstances  which  brought  her  into  her  present  situa- 
tion, a  voice  assailed  her  ear  which  made  her  start  in  sudden  alarm 
from  her  declining  posture.  It  was  that  of  a  person  singing  in  a  low 
voice  outside  her  window  the  following  words: — 

'As  I  roved  out  on  a  fine  summer  morning, 

A  speculating  most  curiously, 
To  my  surprise  I  soon  espied 

A  charming  fair  one  approaching  me. 
I  stood  awhile — 

Here  the  melodist  knocked  gently  at  the  door  of  the  cottage — 

I  stood  awhile  in  deep  meditation, 

Contemplating  what  I  should  do; 
Till,  at  length,  recruiting  all  my  sensations, 

I  thus  accosted  the  fair  Colleen  rue.'  * 

At  the  close  of  the  verse,  which  was  prolonged  by  the  customary 
nasal  twang,  the  singer  knocked  a  little  more  loudly  with  the  knuckle 
of  his  forefinger: — 

'Oh,  was  I  Hecthor,  that  noble  victher, 
Who  died  a  victim  to  the  Grecian  skill; 

Or  was  I  Paris,  whose  deeds  were  vaarious, 
As  an  arbithraator  on  Ida 's  hill, 

I'd  roam  through  Asia,  likewise  Arabia, 

Or  Pennsylvania- 
Here  he  knocked  again — 

Or  Pennsylvania  looking  for  you, 
Through  the  burning  ragions,  like  famed  Orpheus, 
For  one  embrace  of  you,  Colleen  rue.' 

'  I  am  ruined!  I  am  undone!'  thought  Eily,  as  she  listened  in 
deep  distress  and  fear; '  my  father  has  found  me  out,  and  they  are 
all  come  to  look  for  me!  Oh,  Hardress!  Hardress! ' 

'  They're  all  dead,  or  dhraming  here,  I  believe,'  said  the  singer; 
'  I'm  in  fine  luck,  if  I  have  to  go  down  the  ould  gap  again  afther 
nightfall.'  Stimulated  by  this  reflection,  he  turned  his  back  to  the 
door,  and  began  kicking  against  it  with  his  heel,  while  he  continued 
his  song: 

*Red  little  girl. 

'85 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'And  are  you  Aurora,  or  the  goddess  Flora, 

Or  Eutherpasia,  or  fair  Vanus  bright? 
Or  Halen  fair,  beyond  compare, 

Whoam  Paris  stole  from  the  Grecian's  sight? 
Thou  fairest  creature,  how  you've  enslaved  me! 

I'm  intoxicated  by  Cupid's  clue, 
Whose  golden  notes  and  infatuations, 

Have  deranged  my  ideas  for  you,  Colleen  rue.'. 

Here  the  same  air  was  taken  up  by  a  shrill  and  broken  female  voice 
a  little  distance  from  the  house,  and  in  the  words  which  follow: — 

'Sir,  I  pray  be  aisy,  and  do  not  tease  me 

With  your  false  praises  most  jestingly; 
Your  golden  notes  and  insiniwayshuns 

Are  vaunting  speeches  decaiving  me. 
I'm  not  Aurora,  nor  the  goddess  Flora, 

But  a  rural  female  to  all  men's  view, 
Who's  here  condoling  my  situation, 

And  my  appellation  is  the  Colleen  rue.' 

'  You're  not  Aurora  ? '  muttered  the  first  voice.  '  Wisha,  dear 
knows,  it  isn't  aisy  to  conthradict  you.  They'd  be  the  dhroll 
Auroras  an'  Floras,  if  that's  the  figure  they  cut.  Ah!  Mrs. 
Naughten!'  he  added,  raising  and  changing  his  voice  as  the  shadow 
of  the  female  figure  crossed  the  window  of  Eily's  apartment, '  how 
are  you  this  evening,  ma'am?  I  hope  you  got  well  over  your 
voyage  that  morning  ? ' 

'  What  voyage  ?  Who  is  it  I  have  there  at  all  ? '  said  Poll  in  a 
tone  of  surprise.  '  Oh,  Lowry  Looby!  Oh,  ma  gra  hu!  how  is 
every  inch  of  you.  Lowry  ?  It  raises  the  very  cockles  o'  my  heart  to 
see  you.' 

*  Purty  well,  indeed,  as  for  the  health,  Mrs.  Naughten,  we're 
obleest  to  you.' 

Oh,  vo,  vo!  An'  what  brought  you  into  this  part  of  the  world, 
Lowry?  It's  a  long  time  since  you  an'  I  met.' 

'  'Tis  as  good  as  two  months,  a'most,  I  believe.' 

'  Two  months,  eroo  ?     'Tis  six  years  if  it's  a  day.' 

'  Oh,  iss,  for  good;  but  I  mane  the  time  we  met  in  the  cottage 
behind  at  the  dairy  farm,  the  night  o'  the  great  starm,  when  ye 
were  near  being  all  lost,  in  the  boat,  if  it  wasn't  the  will  o'  heaven.' 

'  The  dairy  farm!  lost  in  the  boat!  I  don't  know  what  is  it  you're 
talken'  about  at  all,  man.  But  come  in,  come  in,  Lowry,  and  take 
a  sate.  Stop,  here's  Phil.  Phil,  eroo,  this  is  Lowry  Looby,  that 
you  heard  me  talk  of  being  a  friend  o'  the  Hewsans,  formerly,' 

186 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

Thus  introduced,  Phil  and  Lowry  both  took  off  their  hats,  and 
bowed  repeatedly,  and  with  a  most  courteous  profundity  of  obei- 
sance. The  door  was  then  opened,  and  a  polite  contest  arose  as  to 
the  right  of  precedence  between  the  gentlemen,  which  was  finally 
decided  in  favour  of  Lowry,  as  the  visitor. 

'  Well,  Lowry,  what  news  eastwards?'  was  the  next  question. 

*  Oh,  then,  nothing  sthrange,  Mrs.  Naughten.     I  was  twice  by 
this  way  since  I  seen  you  that  night.     Coming  from  Cork  I  was 
to-day,  when  I  thought  I'd  step  over,  and  see  how  you  wor,  afther 
the  voyage.    I  left  the  horse  an'  car  over  in  Mr.  Cregan's  yard.' 

'  I  believe  you're  lost  with  the  hunger.  Phil,  stir  yourself,  an' 
put  down  something  for  supper.' 

'  Don't  hurry  yourself  on  my  account,'  said  Lowry,  affecting 
an  indifference  which  he  did  not  feel;  'I  took  something  at  Mr. 
Cregan's.  I  saw  Masther  Hardress  there  in  the  parlour  windee, 
playin'  chests  (I  think  it  is  they  called  it)  with  Miss  Anne  Chute. 
Oh,  murder,  that's  a  darling,  a  beautiful  lady!  Her  laugh  is  like 
music.  Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!  To  see  the  smile  of  her,  though, 
an'  she  looking  at  him!  It  flogged  the  world!  Mike,  the  boy 
they  have  there,  an'  old  Nancy,  told  me  she's  greatly  taken  with 
the  young  masther.' 

'  Why,  then,  she  may  as  well  throw  her  cap  at  him.' 

'  Why  so,  eroo  ? ' 

*  Oh — for  raisons.' 

'  There's  one  thing  Mike  told  me,  an'  I'm  sure  I  wondher  I 
never  heerd  a  word  of  it  before — that  there  was  some  talks  of  herself 
and  my  young  masther,  Mr.  Kyrle  Daly.  I  know  he  used  to  be 
going  there  of  an  odd  time,  but  I  never  heerd  anything  that  way. 
There's  a  dale  that's  looking  afther  her,  Mike  tells  me.  Whoever 
gets  her,  they  say,  he'll  have  as  much  jewels  to  fight  as  will  keep 
him  going  for  the  first  quarter,  anyway.' 

'  Tha  go  bragh!'  said  Phil,  tossing  his  head,  '  that's  what  bothers 
the  gentlemen.  Jewels,  jewels,  always.' 

'  Jewels  always,  then,  just  as  you  say,  Misther  Naughten,'  said 
Lowry.  '  It's  what  ruins  'em,  body  and  soul.  At  every  hand's 
turn  nothing  but  a  jewel!  Let  there  be  a  conthrairy  look,  and 
pistols  is  the  word  at  once.' 

'  An'  if  a  poor  boy  is  reflected  upon,  an'  goes  to  a  fair  to 
thry  it  out  with  an  innocent  like  kippen,  Oh,  the  savages! 
the  gentlemen  cry  at  once.  Oh,  the  bloodthirsty  villyans!  And 

187 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

they'll  go  themselves  and  shoot  one  another  like  dogs  for  less 
raison.'  * 

*  It's  thrue  for  you,'  returned  Lowry.  '  Sure  'twould  be  a 
blessing  for  a  man  to  be  aiting  a  dhry  piatie  from  morning  till 
night,  an'  to  have  quietness.  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  Misther 
Naughten.  I  spake  for  myself,  of  all  things  going,  I  wouldn't  like 
to  be  born  a  gentleman.  They're  never  out  o'  throuble,  this  way  j 
or  that  way.  If  they're  not  fighting,  they  have  more  things  upon  I 
their  mind  that  would  bother  a  dozen  poor  men;  an'  if  they  go[ 
divarting,  ten  to  one  they  have  a  jewel  before  the  day  is  over.  Sure, 
if  it  was  a  thing,  two  gentlemen  axed  a  lady  to  dance,  an'  she  gave 
in  to  one  of  'em,  the  other  should  challenge  him  for  to  go  fighting. 
Sure,  that  flogs  Europe!  And  they  have  so  much  books  to  read, 
to  be  able  to  convarse  genteel  before  the  ladies.  I'm  told,  a  gentle- 
man isn't  fit  to  show  his  face  in  company  till  he  reads  as  much  books 
as  would  sthretch  from  this  to  the  doore  over.  And  then  to  be 
watching  yourself,  an'  spake  Englified,  an'  not  to  ate  half  your 
'nough  at  dinner,  an'  to  have  'em  all  looking  at  you  if  you  took  too 
big  a  bit,  or  done  anything  again'  manners,  and  never  to  have  your 
own  fling,  an'  let  you  do  what  you  liked  yourself!  I  wouldn't  lade 
such  a  life  if  I  got  Europe.  A  snug  stool  by  the  fireside,  a  boiled 
piatie  in  one  hand,  a  piggin  o'  milk  in  the  other,  and  one  (that  I 
won't  name  now)  smiling  overright  me,  that's  all  the  gentility  I'd 
ever  ax  for  this  world,  anyway.  I'd  a'most  as  lieve  be  born  a 
female  as  a  gentleman,  maning  no  offense  to  the  ladies,  Mrs. 
Naughten.' 

'  Every  one  to  his  taste,  Lowry.  Many  men  have  many  minds. 
Phil,  will  you  go  out  now,  and  help  Danny  to  put  up  them  goats, 
not  to  have  them  straying  over  on  Myles  Murphy's  ground  as  they 
wor  o'  Chuesday  week.  I  see  Danny  coming  down  the  mountain.' 

The  obedient  husband  did  as  he  was  commanded  and  Lowry 
took  advantage  of  his  absence  to  enter  into  a  more  confidential 
communication  with  his  formidable  hostess. 

'  Well,  Mrs.  Naughten,  if  I  was  to  hear  a  person  swear  this  upon 
a  book,  I'd  say  'twas  a  lie  he  was  telling  me,  if  I  didn't  see  it  with 
my  own  eyes.' 

'  What  is  it  you  see  ? ' 

'  Oh,  then,  nothing  but  what  I'm  well  pleased  to  see.  Well, 
I  thought  one  that  once  gave  themselves  a  bad  habit  could  never 
be  broke  of  it  again,  no  more  than  a  horse  could  be  broke  of  starting.' 

188 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

At  this  the  virago  fixed  upon  him  a  kindling  and  suspicious  eye. 

'  And  tell  me  now,  Mrs.  Naughten,'  continued  Lowry,  not  per- 
ceiving the  indication  of  incipient  wrath,  '  how  did  it  come  on  you 
first  when  you  dhropt  the  cursing  that  way  entirely?  I  think  I'd 
feel  a  great  loss  for  the  first  week  or  fortnight.' 

'  Folly  on!  Misther  Looby,  folly  on!  You're  welcome  to  your 
sport  this  evening.' 

'  Sport?  Faiks,  it's  no  sport  to  me,  only  an  admiration.  All 
the  people  that  ever  I  heerd  of  making  a  vow  o'  the  kind  wor  sure 
to  break  it  again,  if  they  didn't  get  inside  of  it,  one  way  or  another, 
by  shkaming.  Sure  there  was,  to  my  own  knowledge,  John 
O'Reilly,  the  blacksmith  near  Castle  Chute,  made  as  many  vows 
as  I  have  fingers  an'  toes  again'  the  dhrink,  an'  there  isn't  one  of 
'em  but  what  he  got  the  advantage  of.  First  he  med  a  vow  he 
wouldn't  dhrink  a  dhrop  for  six  months  to  come,  anyway,  either 
in  a  house  or  out  of  a  house.  An'  sure  'tis  where  I  found  him  the 
fornight  afther  was  at  Mick  Normile's,  an'  he  dhrinkin'  as  if  it  was 
for  bets,  an'  he  sitting  in  a  chair  upon  the  threshold  o'  the  doore 
with  a  leg  at  this  side  and  a  leg  at  that.  "  Is  that  the  way  you're 
keeping  your  vow,  Misther  O'Reilly?"  says  I,  when  I  seen  him. 
"  'Tis,"  say  she;  "  what  else  ?  sure  I  can  dhrink  here,"  says  he, "  an' 
no  thanks,  while  I'm  neither  in  the  house  nor  out  of  it."  And 
sure  'twas  thrue  for  him.  Well,  there's  no  use  in  talking,  but  some 
people  would  live  where  a  fox  would  starve.  Sure,  of  another  time, 
he  med  a  vow  he  wouldn't  dhrink  upon  Ireland  ground,  an'  where 
do  you  think  did  I  get  him  afther  only  sitting  cross-legs  upon  a 
branch  o'  the  big  beech-tree  near  Normile's,  an'  he  still  at  the  ould 
work',  dhrinking  away!  "  Wisha,  long  life  to  you,"  says  I,  "  if 
that's  the  way;  a  purty  fruit  the  tree  bears  in  you,"  says  I,  "  this 
morning."  People  o'  that  kind,  Mrs.  Naughten,  has  no  business 
making  vows  at  all  again'  the  dhrink,  or  the  cursing  either.' 

'  I'm  hearing  to  you,  Lowry,'  said  Fighting  Poll,  with  an 
ominous  sharpness  in  her  accent. 

'  An'  do  you  hould  to  the  same  plan  still,  ma'am?' 

'  What  plan  do  you  mane  ? ' 

'  The  same  plan  as  when  I  met  you  that  night  at  the  dairy 
cottage.  Not  to  be  talking,  nor  drinking,  nor  cursing,  nor  swear- 
ing, nor  fighting,  nor — Oh,  murther,  Mrs.  Naughten,  sure  you're 
not  going  to  sthrike  me  inside  your  own  doore  ? ' 

'  To  be  sure  I  would,  when  I  see  you  daar  make  a  hand  o'  me!' 

189 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'  Me  make  a  hand  o'  you,  woman !    What  hand  am  I  making  ? ' 

'  Every  hand!'  exclaimed  the  Penthesile,  raising  her  voice.  So 
saying,  and  with  the  accustomed  yell  of  onset,  she  nourished  her 
short  stick,  and  discharged  a  blow  at  Lowry's  little  head  which,  if 
it  had  not  been  warded  off  by  a  dexterous  interposition  of  the  chair 
on  which  he  had  been  sitting,  would  have  left  him  something  to 
think  of  for  a  week  to  come. 

The  scuffle  waxed  hot,  and  would  doubtless  have  terminated  in 
some  serious  bodily  injury  to  the  party  assailed,  but  that  the  sudden 
re-entrance  of  Phil,  with  his  brother-in-law,  Danny  Mann,  brought 
it  to  a  premature  termination. 

'Poll!  Poll,  ayeh!  Misther  Looby!  What's  the  matther? 
Worn't  ye  as  thick  as  cousins  this  moment  ? ' 

'  A'  Lowry,  is  dat  you?    What's  all  dis  about?' 

'  Don't  hould  me,  Phil,  an'  I'll  bate  him  while  bating  is  good  for 
him!  an  that's  from  this  till  morning.' 

.  '  Here's  usage,  Mr.  Naughten!  Mr.  Mann,  here's  thratement! 
Gi'  me  my  ould  hat  an'  let  me  be  off;  I  was  a  fool  to  come  at  all! 
And  after  my  civility  eastwards,  when  you  come  dhripping  wet  into 
the  cottage!  Well,  it's  all  one.' 

'  Whisht,  eroo ! '  said  Danny  Mann,  in  a  conciliating  tone.  '  Come 
dis  way,  Lowry,  I  want  to  talk  to  you.'  And  he  led  him  out  of  the 
cottage. 

Eily,  who  was  perfectly  aware  of  the  cause  of  this  misconception, 
had  listened  to  the  whole  scene,  at  one  tune  with  intense  and  painful 
anxiety,  and  at  another  with  an  inclination  to  laugh  in  spite  of  all 
the  difficulties  and  dangers  by  which  she  was  surrounded.  Before 
long,  however,  an  idea  entered  her  mind,  which  wholly  detached 
her  attention  from  the  melee  in  the  kitchen.  She  resolved  to  write 
to  her  father  by  Lowry,  to  make  him  aware,  at  least,  of  her  safety 
and  of  her  hope  to  meet  him  again  in  honour,  if  not  in  happiness. 
This  would  at  least  remove  one  great  load  from  her  mind,  and 
prepare  him  for  her  return.  While  she  arranged  her  writing 
materials  at  the  small  table,  the  thoughts  of  home  came  crowding 
on  her  so  thick  and  fast  that  she  found  a  difficulty  in  proceeding 
with  her  task.  It  was  an  humble  home,  to  be  sure,  but  yet  it  was 
her  home.  He  was  an  humble  father,  but  he  was  her  father.  She 
painted  a  little  picture,  unconsciously,  to  her  own  mind,  of  that 
forsaken  dwelling.  She  saw  her  father  sitting  by  the  turf-fire,  lean- 
ing forward  with  his  elbow  resting  on  his  knee,  a  finger  beneath  his 

190 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

temple,  and  his  grey  watery  eye  fixed  on  her  accustomed  chair, 
which  stood  empty,  on  the  opposite  side.  His  hair  had  received 
another  shower  of  silver  since  they  parted.  She  scarcely  dared  to 
breathe  aloud,  lest  she  should  disturb  the  imagined  loneliness  of 
his  condition.  On  a  sudden  she  figured  to  herself  the  latched  door 
put  gently  back,  and  the  form  of  Lowry  Looby  entering,  with  her 
letter  in  his  hand.  She  marked  the  air  of  cold  and  sad  indifference 
with  which  the  old  man  recognized  him,  and  received  the  letter. 
He  looked  at  the  direction — started — tore  off  the  seal  and  looked 
within,  while  his  whole  frame  trembled  until  the  grey  hairs  were 
shaken  loose  upon  his  temples.  She  saw  the  passion  struggling  in 
his  throat,  and  her  own  eyes  were  blinded  by  tears;  the  picture 
here  became  too  vivid  for  her  feelings,  and  pushing  the  little  desk 
aside,  she  sank  down  into  her  chair  in  a  violent  fit  of  sobbing. 

While  she  remained  in  this  condition  Poll  Naughten  entered  the 
room,  arranging  her  disordered  head-dress,  and  bearing  still  upon 
her  countenance  the  traces  of  the  vanished  storm.  Its  expression, 
however,  was  completely  altered  when  she  observed  the  situation 
of  Eily. 

'  What  ails  you,  a'  ra  gal? '  she  asked  in  a  softened  voice.  '  Arn't 
you  betther  af ther  the  sleep  at  all  ? ' 

'  Poll,  do  you  know  that  man  who  is  in  the  kitchen?' 

'  Is  it  Lowry  Looby?  Ah,  ha!  the  scoundhril !  'tis  I  that  do,  an' 
I'll  make  him  he'll  know  me,  too,  before  I  part  him.' 

'  Hush!  Poll,  come  hither.  I  want  you  to  do  me  a  service.  / 
know  this  man,  too.' 

'  Why,  then,  he's  little  credit  to  you,  or  any  one  else.' 

'  I  want  to  caution  you  against  saying  a  word  of  my  name  while 
he  is  in  the  house.  It  would  be  ruinous  both  to  your  master  and 
myself.' 

'  Faiks,  I'll  engage  he  won't  be  a  bit  the  wiser  of  it  for  Poll 
Naughten.' 

'  And  I  wish,  besides,  that  you  would  give  him,  if  he  intends 
going  to  Limerick,  a  letter,  which  I  will  have  for  you  in  a  few 
minutes.  You  need  not  tell  him  from  whom  it  comes;  do  not  even 
let  him  know  that  it  is  from  a  person  in  the  house.  And  now, 
Poll,  will  you  light  me  one  of  those  candles,  and  close  the  window- 
shutters  ? ' 

This  was  done,  and  Eily  commenced  her  letter.  Before  she 
proceeded  far,  however,  it  occurred  to  her  that  the  superscription 

191 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

might  awaken  the  suspicions  of  Lowry,  and  besides,  she  felt  a  very 
accountable  difficulty  about  the  manner  of  addressing  her  offended 
parent.  Finally,  she  decided  on  forwarding  a  brief  and  decorous 
note,  to  'Mr.  Dunat  O'Leary,  Haircutter,  Garryowen';  in  which 
she  requested  him  to  communicate  to  his  old  neighbour  the  cir- 
cumstances of  which  she  desired  the  latter  should  be  made  aware. 

While  she  folded  the  letter  she  heard  the  cottage-door  once  more 
open,  and  two  persons  enter  the  kitchen.  A  stillness  ensued,  which 
was  first  broken  by  the  voice  of  Danny  Mann. 

'  I  was  spaking  to  this  boy  here,  Poll,'  he  said, '  an'  I  see  'tis  all 
rising  out  of  a  mistake  betune  de  two  o'  ye.  He  didn't  mane  any- 
thing by  it,  he  tells  me.  Eh,  Lowry?' 

'  It  would  be  long  from  me,  Mrs.  Naughten,  to  say  anything 
offensive  to  you,  or  any  o'  your  people.  Misther  Mann,  here,  ex- 
plained to  me  the  nature  of  the  matther.  I  own  I  didn't  mane  a 
ha'p'worth.' 

'  Well,  that's  enough,  that's  enough.  Give  him  the  hand  now, 
Poll,'  said  her  husband, '  and  let  us  ate  our  little  supper  in  pace.' 

Eily  heard  no  more,  and  the  clatter  of  knives  and  forks  soon  after 
informed  her  that  the  most  perfect  harmony  had  been  re-estab- 
lished amongst  the  parties.  Nothing  farther  occurred  to  disturb 
the  good  understanding  which  was  thus  fortunately  restored,  or  to 
endanger  the  secret  of  our  heroine,  although  Lowry  was  not  without 
making  many  inquiries  as  to  the  name  and  quality  of  the  lodger  in 
the  inner  room.  It  was  a  long  time,  too,  before  he  ceased  to  specu- 
late on  the  nature  of  the  letter  to  Foxy  Dunat.  On  this  his  hostess 
would  give  him  no  information,  although  he  threw  out  several  hints 
of  his  anxiety  to  obtain  it,  and  made  many  conjectures  of  his  own, 
which  he  invariably  ended  by  tossing  the  head,  and  declaring  that 
'  It  flogged  the  world.' 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

HOW    EILY    UNDERTAKES    A    JOURNEY    IN    THE    ABSENCE    OF    HER 

HUSBAND 

EILY  heard    Lowry  Looby  take    his  departure  on  the  next 
morning  with  as  lively  a  sensation  of  regret  as  if  he  had 
been  a  dearer  friend.    After  the  unkindness  of  her  husband,  she 

192 


trembled  while  she  wept,  to  think  that  it  might  be  a  long  time 
before  she  could  meet  one  more  interested  in  her  fortunes. 

Happier  anticipations  than  this  might  not  have  been  so  perfectly 
fulfilled.  The  first  weeks  of  winter  swept  rapidly  away,  and  Eily 
neither  saw  nor  heard  from  Hardress.  Her  situation  became 
every  moment  more  alarming.  Her  host  and  hostess,  according 
as  she  appeared  to  grow  out  of  favour  with  their  patron,  became  at 
first  negligent  and  surly,  and  at  last  insulting.  She  had  hitherto 
maintained  her  place  on  the  sunny  side  of  Poll's  esteem  by  supply- 
ing that  virago  with  small  sums  of  money  from  time  to  time,  although 
her  conscience  told  her  that  those  donations  were  not  appropriated 
by  the  receiver  to  any  virtuous  end,  but  now  her  stock  was  running 
low.  Hardress,  and  this  was  from  mere  lack  of  memory,  had  left 
her  almost  wholly  unprovided  with  funds. 

She  resolved  to  write  to  him,  not  with  the  view  of  obtaining  mere 
pecuniary  assistance,  but  in  order  to  communicate  the  request 
which  is  subjoined  in  her  own  simple  language: 

'  MY  DEAR  HARDRESS, 

'  Do  not  leave  me  here  to  spend  the  whole  winter  alone. 
If  Eily  has  done  anything  to  offend  you,  come  and  tell  her  so, 
but  remember  she  is  now  away  from  every  friend  in  the  whole 
world.  Even  if  you  are  still  in  the  same  mind  as  when  you  left  me, 
come,  at  all  events,  for  once,  and  let  me  go  back  to  my  father.  If 
you  wish  it,  nobody  besides  us  three  shall  ever  know  what  you  were 
to  your  own 

'  Eily.' 

To  this  letter,  which  she  entrusted  to  Danny  the  Lord,  she  re- 
ceived no  answer,  neither  Hardress  nor  his  servant  being  seen  at 
the  cottage  for  more  than  a  week  after. 

Matters  in  the  meantime  grew  more  unpleasing  between  Eily 
and  her  hosts.  Poll  treated  her  with  the  most  contemptuous 
rudeness,  and  Phil  began  to  throw  out  hints  which  it  was  difficult 
to  misconceive  respecting  their  poverty,  and  the  unreasonableness 
of  people  thrusting  idlers  upon  them,  when  it  was  as  much  as  they 
could  do  to  maintain  themselves  in  honesty.  But  Poll,  who 
possessed  the  national  recklessness  of  expense,  whenever  her  hus- 
band spoke  in  this  niggardly  humour,  turned  on  him,  not  in  defense 
of  Eily,  but  in  abuse  of  his  '  maneness,'  although  she  could  herself 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

use  the  very  same  cause  of  invective  when  an  occasion  offered. 
Thus  Eily,  instead  of  commanding  like  a  queen,  as  she  had  been 
promised,  was  compelled  to  fill  the  pitiable  situation  of  an  insecure 
and  friendless  dependent. 

The  wintry  year  rolled  on  in  barrenness  and  gloom,  casting  an 
air  of  iron  majesty  and  grandeur  over  the  savage  scenery  in  which 
she  dwelt,  and  bringing  close  to  her  threshold  the  first  Christmas 
which  she  had  ever  spent  away  from  home.  The  Christmas  eve 
found  her  still  looking  anxiously  forward  to  the  return  of  her 
husband,  or  of  his  messenger.  The  morning  had  brought  with  it 
a  black  frost,  and  Eily  sat  down  alone  to  a  comfortless  breakfast. 
No  longer  attended  with  that  ready  deference  which  marked  the 
conduct  of  the  Naughtens  while  she  remained  in  favour,  Eily  was 
now  obliged  to  procure  and  arrange  all  the  materials  for  her  repast 
with  her  own  hands.  There  was  no  butter  nor  cream;  but  as 
this  was  one  of  the  great  vigils  or  fast  days  of  her  church,  which 
Eily  observed  with  conscientious  exactness,  she  did  not  miss  these 
prohibited  luxuries.  There  was  no  fast  upon  sugar,  however,  and 
Eily  perceived,  with  some  chagrin,  that  the  sugar-bowl  was  also 
empty.  She  walked  softly  to  the  chamber-door,  where  she  paused 
for  a  moment,  with  her  handkerchief  placed  before  her  cheeks  in 
that  beautiful  attitude  which  Homer  ascribes  to  Penelope  at  the 
entrance  of  the  '  stout-built  hall.'  At  length  she  raised  the  latch, 
and  opened  the  door  to  a  few  inches  only. 

'  Poll,'  she  said,  in  a  timid  and  gentle  voice,  '  do  you  know 
where's  the  sugar?' 

'  It's  in  the  cubbert  I  suppose/  was  the  harsh  and  unceremonious 
answer. 

The  fact  was,  Poll  had  begun  to  keep  the  Christmas  the  evening 
before,  and  treated  herself  to  a  few  tumblers  of  hot  punch,  in  the 
manufacture  of  which  she  had  herself  consumed  the  whole  of  Eily's 
sweets.  And  there  might  have  been  some  cause  of  consolation, 
if  Poll's  temper  had  been  rendered  the  sweeter  by  all  the  sugar 
she  took,  but  this  was  not  the  case. 

'  There  is  none  there,  Poll,'  said  Eily. 

'  Well,  what  hurt  ?  Can't  you  put  a  double  allowance  o'  crame 
in  the  tay,  an'  dhrink  it  raw,  for  once  ? ' 

'  Ah,  but  this  is  a  fast  day,'  said  Eily. 

'  Oyeh,  choke  it,  for  workl  Well  then,  do  as  you  plase,  I  can't 
help  you.  I  haven't  a  spoonful  o'  groceries  in  the  house,  girl, 

194 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

except  I  went  for  'em,  a  thing  I'd  be  very  unfond  to  do  on  a 
morning  like  this.' 

'  Well,  I  can  do  without  it,  Poll,'  said  Eily,  returning  to  the  table, 
and  sitting  down  to  her,  unmetaphorically,  bitter  draught  with  the 
meekest  resignation. 

'  Gi'  me  the  money,  by  an'  by,  when  I'm  going  into  town  for  the 
Christmas  candle,  an'  I'll  buy  it  for  you,  itself,  an'  the  tay.' 

'  But  I  have  no  money,  Poll.' 

'  No  money,  inagh?  An'  isn't  it  upon  yourself  we're  dependin' 
this  way  to  get  in  the  things  again'  to-morrow,  a  Christmas  Day  ? ' 

'  Well,  I  have  not  a  farthing.' 

'  Didn't  you  tell  me  yourself,  the  other  day,  you  had  a  half- 
crown  keepin'  for  me  again'  Handsel  Monday?' 

'  I  gave  it  to  Danny.  I  thought  I'd  have  more  for  you  before 
then.' 

Here  Poll  dashed  in  the  door  with  her  hand,  and  confronted  her 
affrighted  lodger  with  the  look  and  gesture  of  a  raging  Bacchanal. 

'  An'  is  that  my  thanks  ? '  she  screamed  aloud.  '  Why  then,  cook 
you  up  with  bread  and  tay  this  morning.  Go  look  afther  Danny, 
now,  if  you  want  your  bruk'ast.'  And  so  saying  she  seized  two 
corners  of  the  tablecloth,  and  upset  the  whole  concern  into  the 
fireplace. 

Terror  and  astonishment  deprived  Eily  for  some  moments  of 
the  power  of  speech  or  motion.  But  when  she  saw  Poll  taking 
breath,  for  a  moment,  and  looking  around  to  know  what  farther 
devastation  she  might  commit,  the  forlorn  helplessness  of  her 
condition  rushed  at  once  upon  her  mind,  and  she  fell  back  into  her 
seat  in  a  violent  fit  of  hysterics. 

This  is  a  condition  in  which  one  woman  can  rarely  behold  an- 
other without  emotion.  Poll  ran  to  her  relief,  uttering  every 
sound  of  affectionate  condolence  and  encouragement  which  arose 
to  her  lips. 

'  Whisht,  now,  a*  ra  gal!  Whisht  now,  missiz,  a-chree! — Oh, 
ma  chree,  m'asthora,  llanuv,  you  wor!  Howl,  now,  a'  ra  gal! 
Oh,  vo!  vo! — howl! — howl  asthore!  What  ails  you?  Sure 
you  know  'tis  only  funnin'  I  was.  Well,  see  this!  Tell  me  any- 
thing now  in  the  wide  world  I'll  do  for  you,  a'  ra  gal.' 

'  Poll,'  said  Eily,  when  she  had  recovered  a  certain  degree  of 
composure,  '  there  is  one  thing  you  can  do  for  me,  if  you  like,  and* 
it  will  relieve  me  from  the  greatest  distress.' 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'  An'  what  is  that,  a-chree  ? ' 

'  To  lend  me  one  of  the  ponies,  and  get  me  a  boy  that  can  show 
me  the  way  to  Castle  Island.' 

'  Is  it  goin'  you're  thinking  of?' 

*  I  will  be  here  again,'  said  Eily,  '  on  to-morrow  evening.  Eily 
spoke  this  without  any  vehemence  of  asseveration,  and  in  the  quiet 
manner  of  one  who  had  never  been  accustomed  to  have  her  words 
doubted.  So  irresistible,  too,  is  the  force  of  simple  truth,  that  Poll 
did  not  even  entertain  a  suspicion  of  any  intent  to  deceive. 

'  An'  what  business  would  carry  you  to  Castle  Island,  a'  ra 
gal?' 

'  I  have  a  friend  there,  an  uncle,'  Eily  replied  with  tears  starting 
into  her  eyes  at  the  remembrance  of  her  old  preceptor.  '  I  am  sure, 
Poll,  that  he  would  assist  me.' 

'  I'm  in  a  dhread  'tis  going  from  uz  you  are  now,  o'  'count  o' 
what  I  said  to  you.  Don't  mind  that  at  all.  Stop  here  as  long  as 
ever  you  like,  an'  no  thanks.  I'll  step  across  the  road  this  minute 
and  bony  the  sugar  for  you  if  it's  it  you  want.' 

'  No,  no.  I  only  want  to  do  as  I  have  told  you.  I'll  engage  to 
screen  you  from  all  blame.' 

'  Blame!  A'  whose  blame  is  it  you  think  I'd  be  afeerd  of?  I'll 
let  you  see  that  I'll  do  what  I  like  myself,  an'  get  you  the  pony 
saddled  an'  all  this  minute.  But  you  didn't  ate  anything  hardly. 
Here's  more  bread  in  the  cupboard,  and  strengthen  yourself  again' 
the  road  while  I'm  away.' 

She  left  the  room,  and  Eily,  who  had  little  hope  of  succeeding 
so  easily  in  her  request,  proceeded  to  make  her  preparations  for 
the  journey,  with  as  much  dispatch  and  animation  as  if  she  had 
discovered  a  sudden  mode  of  release  from  all  her  anxieties.  For 
a  considerable  time,  the  prospect  of  meeting  with  her  uncle  filled 
her  bosom  with  sensations  of  unmingled  pleasure.  If  she  looked 
back  (while  she  tied  her  bonnet-strings  below  her  chin,  and  hurried 
on  the  plainest  dress  in  her  trunk),  if  she  looked  back  to  those  days 
in  which  her  venerable  relative  presided  over  her  evening  studies, 
and  directed  their  application,  it  was  only  to  turn  her  eyes  again 
upon  the  future,  and  hope  for  their  speedy  renovation. 

Having  concluded  her  arrangements  and  cautioned  Poll  not  to 
say  a  word  of  her  destination,  in  case  Hardress  should  come  to  the 
cottage,  Eily  now  set  out  upon  her  lonely  journey.  The  person 
whom  Poll  Naughten  had  procured  her  for  a  guide  was  a  stout-made 

196 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

girl,  who  carried  an  empty  spirit-keg  slung  at  her  back,  in  the  tail 
of  her  gown,  which  she  had  turned  up  over  her  shoulders.  She 
informed  Eily  that  she  was  accustomed  to  go  every  Saturday  to  a 
town  at  the  distance  of  fourteen  miles,  and  to  return  in  the  evening 
with  the  keg  full  of  spirits.  '  But  this  week,'  she  continued,  '  I'm 
obleest  to  go  twice,  on  account  o'  the  Christmas  Day  falling  in  the 
middle  of  it.' 

'  And  what  does  your  employer  want  of  so  much  whiskey?'  said 
Eily,  a  little  interested  in  the  fortune  of  so  hard-working  a  creature. 

'  Want  o'  the  whiskey,  inagh  ? '  exclaimed  the  mountain  girl, 
turning  her  black  eyes  on  her  companion  in  surprise.  '  Sure  isn't 
it  she  that  keeps  the  public-house  above  the  Gap,  an'  what  business 
would  she  have  wit  a  place  o'  that  kind  without  a  dhrop  o'  whiskey  ? ' 

'  And  what  are  you  paid,  now,  for  so  long  a  journey  as  that  ? ' 

'  Defferent  ways,  I'm  paid,  defferent  times.  If  it's  a  could 
evening  when  I  come  home,  I  take  a  glass  o'  the  spirits  itself,  in 
preference  to  anything,  an'  if  not,  the  misthress  pays  me  a  penny 
every  time.' 

*  One  penny  only!' 

'  One  penny.  Indeed  it's  too  little,  but  when  I  spake  of  it,  the 
misthress  tells  me  she  can  get  it  done  for  less.  So  I  have  nothin' 
to  say  but  do  as  I'm  bid.' 

Eily  paused  for  a  few  moments,  while  she  compared  the  situation 
of  this  uncomplaining  individual  with  her  own.  The  balance  of 
external  comforts,  at  least,  did  not  appear  to  be  on  the  side  of  the 
poor  little  mountaineer. 

'  And  have  you  no  other  way  of  living  now  than  this?'  she  asked, 
with  increasing  interest. 

'  Illiloo !  Is  it  upon  a  penny  a  week  you  think  I'd  live  ? '  returned 
the  girl,  who  was  beginning  to  form  no  very  exalted  idea  of  her 
companion's  intellect. 

'  Do  you  live  with  your  mistress  ? ' 

'  No,  I  live  with  my  ould  father.  We  have  a  spot  o'  ground 
beyant,  for  the  piatees.  Sometimes  I  dig  it,  but  mostly  the  young 
boys  o'  the  place  comes  and  digs  it  for  us  on  a  Sunday  or  a  holiday 
morning,  an'  I  stick  in  the  seed.' 

'  And  which  is  it  for  the  sake  of,  the  father  or  the  daughter,  they 
take  that  trouble  ? ' 

'  For  the  sake,  I  b'lieve,  of  the  Almighty  that  made  'em  both. 
Signs  on,  they  have  our  prayers,  night  an'  morning.' 

197 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'  Is  your  father  quite  helpless?' 

'  Oyeh!  long  from  it.  He's  a  turner.  He  makes  little  boxes, 
and  necklaces,  and  things  in  that  way,  of  the  arbutus,  and  the  black 
oak  of  the  Lakes,  that  he  sells  to  the  English  an'  other  quollity 
people  that  comes  to  see  them.  But  he  finds  it  hard  to  get  the 
timber,  for  none  of  it  is  allowed  to  be  cut,  and  'tis  only  windfalls 
that  he  can  take  when  the  stormy  saison  beg'ns.  Besides,  there's 
more  in  the  town  of  Killarney  that  outsells  him.  He  makes  but 
a  poor  hand  of  it  afther  all.' 

'  I  wonder  you  have  not  got  a  sweetheart.  You  are  very  pretty, 
and  very  good.' 

The  girl  here  gave  her  a  sidelong  glance,  and  laughed  so  as  to 
exhibit  a  set  of  teeth  of  the  purest  enamel.  The  look  seemed  to 
say, '  Is  that  all  you  know  about  the  matter?'  but  her  words  were 
different  in  their  signification. 

*  Oyeh,  I  don't  like  'em  for  men,'  she  said,  with  a  half-smiling, 
half-coquettish  air.  '  They're  deceivers  and  rovers,  I  believe,  the 
best  of  'em.' 

'  Well,  I  wouldn't  think  that,  now,  of  that  handsome  young  man, 
in  the  check  shirt,  that  nodded  to  you  as  we  passed  him,  while  ago. 
He  has  an  honest  face.' 

The  girl  again  laughed  and  blushed.  '  Why  then,  I'll  tell 
you,'  she  said,  at  length  seduced  into  a  confidence.  '  If 
I'd  b'lieve  any  of  'em,  I  think  it  is  that  boy.  He  is  a  boat- 
man on  the  Lakes,  and  aims  a  sight  o'  money,  but  it  goes  as 
fast  as  it  comes.' 

'How  is  that?' 

'  Oh,  then,  he  can't  help  it,  poor  fellow.  Them  boatmen  arn't 
allowed  to  dhrink  anything  while  they're  upon  the  Lakes,  except  at 
the  stations,  but  then,  to  make  up  for  that,  they  all  meet  at  night 
at  a  hall  in  town,  where  they  stay  dancing  and  dhrinking  all  night, 
'till  they  spend  whatever  the  quollity  gives  'em  in  the  day.  Luke 
Kennedy  (that's  this  boy)  would  like  to  save,  if  he  could,  but  the 
rest  wouldn't  pull  an  oar  with  him,  if  he  didn't  do  as  they  do.  So 
that's  the  way  of  it.  And  sometimes  afther  being  up  all  night  a'most 
you'll  see  'em  out  again  at  the  first  light  in  the  morning.  'Tis 
a  pity  the  quollity  would  give  'em  money  at  all,  only  have  it  laid  out 
for  'em  in  some  way  that  it  would  do  'em  good.  Luke  Kennedy 
is  a  great  fencer  I'm  tould.  Himself  an'  Miles  Murphy,  behind, 
are  the  best  about  the  Lakes  at  the  stick.  Sure  Luke  taught  fencing 

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THE   COLLEGIANS 

himself  once.  Did  you  ever  hear  o'  the  great  guard  he  taught  the 
boys  about  the  place  ? ' 

Fame  had  not  informed  Eily  of  this  circumstance. 

'  Well,  I'll  tell  you  it.  He  gev  it  out  one  Sunday,  upon  some 
writing  that  was  pasted  again  the  chapel-door,  to  have  all  the  boys, 
that  wor  for  larnen'  to  fence,  to  come  to  him  at  sech  a  place,  an' 
he'd  taich  'em  a  guard  that  would  hindher  'em  of  ever  being  sthruck. 
Well,  'tis  an  admiration  what  a  gathering  he  had  before  him.  So 
when  they  wor  all  listening,  "Boys,"  says  he,  getting  up  on  a  table 
an'  looking  round  him,  "boys,  the  guard  I  have  to  give  ye,  that'll 
save  ye  from  all  sorts  o '  sthrokes,  is  this,  to  keep  a  civil  tongue  in  ye  'r 
head  at  all  times.  Do  that,"  says  he,  "an'  I'll  be  bail  ye  never '11 
get  a  sthroke."  Well,  you  never  seen  people  wondher  so  much, 
or  look  so  foolish  as  they  did,  since  the  hour  you  wor  born.' 

"Twas  a  good  advice.' 

'An'  that's  a  thing  Luke  knew  how  to  give,  better  than  he'd 
take.  I  hardly  spake  to  him  at  all  now,  myself.' 

'Why  so?' 

'Oh,  he  knows,  himself.  He  wanted  me  a  while  ago  to  marry 
him,  and  to  part  my  ould  father.' 

'  And  you  refused  ? '  said  Eily,  blushing  a  conscious  crimson. 

'I  hardly  spoke  to  him  afther.  He'd  be  the  handsome  Luke 
Kennedy,  indeed,  if  he'd  make  me  part  the  poor  ould  man  that 
way.  An'  my  mother  dead,  an'  he  having  no  one  else  but  myself 
to  do  a  ha'p'orth  for  him.  What  could  I  expect  if  I  done  that? 
If  Luke  likes  me,  let  him  come  and  show  it  by  my  father;  if  not, 
there's  more  girls  hi  the  place,  an'  he's  welcome  to  pick  his  choice, 
for  Mary.' 

Every  word  of  this  speech  fell  like  a  burning  coal  upon  the  heart 
of  Eily.  She  paused  a  moment  in  deep  emotion,  and  then  addressed 
her  companion: 

'You  are  right,  Mary,  you  are  very  right.  Let  nothing,  let  no 
man's  love,  tempt  you  to  forget  your  duty  to  your  father.  Oh, 
you  don't  know,  much  as  you  love  him,  what  thoughts  you  would 
have,  if  you  were  to  leave  him  as  you  say.  Let  nothing  tempt  you 
to  it.  You  would  neither  have  luck,  nor  peace,  nor  comfort,  and 
if  your  husband  should  be  unkind  to  you,  you  could  not  turn  to  him 
again  for  consolation.  But  I  need  not  be  talking  to  you;  you  are 
a  good  girl,  and  more  fit  to  give  me  advice,  than  to  listen  to  any  I 
can  offer  you,' 

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THE   COLLEGIANS 

From  this  moment  Eily  did  not  open  her  lips  to  her  companion, 
until  they  arrived  in  Castle  Island.  The  Christmas  candles  were 
already  lighted  in  every  cottage,  and  Eily  determined  to  defer  seeing 
her  uncle  until  the  following  morning. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

HOW  EILY  FARED  IN  HER  EXPEDITION 

AFTER  a  sharp  and  frosty  morning,  the  cold  sun  of  the 
Christmas  noon  found  Father  Edward  O'Connor  seated  in 
his  little  parlour,  before  a  cheerful  turf-fire.  A  small  table  was 
laid  before  it,  and  decorated  with  a  plain  breakfast,  which  the 
fatigues  of  the  forenoon  rendered  not  a  little  acceptable.  The 
sun  shone  directly  in  the  window,  dissolving  slowly  away  the 
fantastic  foliage  of  frostwork  upon  the  window-panes,  and  fling- 
ing its  shadow  on  the  boarded  floor.  The  reverend  host  himself 
sat  in  a  meditative  posture,  near  the  fire,  awaiting  the  arrival  of 
some  fresh  eggs,  over  the  cookery  of  which  Jim,  the  clerk,  presided 
in  the  kitchen.  His  head  was  drooped  a  little;  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  burning  fuel,  his  nether  lip  a  little  protruded,  his  feet  stretched 
out  and  crossed,  and  the  small  bulky  volume,  in  which  he  had  been 
reading  his  daily  office,  half  closed  in  his  right  hand,  with  a  finger 
left  between  the  leaves  to  mark  the  place.  No  longer  a  pale  and 
secluded  student,  Father  Edward  now  presented  the  appearance 
of  a  healthy  man,  with  a  face  hardened  by  frequent  exposure  to  the 
winds  of  midnight  and  of  morn,  and  with  a  frame  made  vigorous 
by  unceasing  exercise.  His  eye,  moreover,  had  acquired  a  certain 
character  of  severity,  which  was  more  than  qualified  by  a  nature  of 
the  tenderest  benevolence. 

On  the  table,  close  to  the  small  tray  which  held  his  simple  equi- 
page, was  placed  a  linen  bag,  containing  in  silver  the  amount  of  his 
Christmas  offerings.  They  had  been  paid  him  on  that  morning 
in  crowns,  half-crowns,  and  shillings,  at  the  parish  chapel.  And 
Father  Edward  on  this  occasion  had  returned  thanks  to  his  parish- 
ioners for  their  liberality, — the  half-yearly  compensation  for  all  his 
toils  and  exertions,  his  sleepless  nights  and  restless  days,  amounting 
to  no  less  a  sum  than  thirteen  pounds,  fourteen  shillings. 

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THE   COLLEGIANS 

'  'Tis  an  admiration,  sir,'  said  Jim,  the  clerk,  as  he  entered,  clad 
in  a  suit  of  Father  Edward's  rusty  black,  laid  the  eggs  upon  the 
tray,  and  moved  back  to  a  decorous  distance  from  the  table.  '  'Tis 
an  admiration  what  a  sight  o'  people  is  abroad  in  the  kitchen,  money- 
hunting.' 

'Didn't  I  tell  'em  the  last  time,  that  I  would  never  pay  a  bill  upon 
a  Christmas  Day  again  ? ' 

'That's  the  very  thing  I  said  to  'em,  sir.  But  'tis  the  answer 
they  made  me,  that  they  come  a  long  distance,  and  'twould  cost  'em 
a  day  more  if  they  were  obliged  to  be  coming  again  to-morrow.' 

Father  Edward,  with  a  countenance  of  perplexity  and  chagrin, 
removed  the  top  of  the  egg,  while  he  cast  a  glance  alternately  at  the 
bag  and  at  his  clerk.  'It  is  a  hard  case,  Jim,'  he  said  at  last,  'that 
they  will  not  allow  a  man  even  the  satisfaction  of  retaining  so  much 
money  in  his  possession  for  a  single  day,  and  amusing  himself  by 
fancying  it  his  own.  I  suspect  I  am  doomed  to  be  no  more  than 
a  mere  agent  to  this  thirteen  pound  fourteen,  after  all;  to  receive 
and  pay  it  away  in  a  breath — ' 

'Just  what  I  was  thinking  myself,  sir,'  said  Jim,  tossing  his 
head. 

'Well,  I  suppose  I  must  not  cost  the  poor  fellows  a  day's  work, 
however,  Jim,  if  they  have  come  such  a  distance.  That  would  be 
a  little  Pharisaical,  I  fear.' 

Jim  did  not  understand  this  word,  but  he  bowed  as  if  he  would 
say,  'Whatever  your  reverence  says,  I  am  sure,  must  be  correct.' 

'  Who  are  they,  Jim  ? '  resumed  the  clergyman. 

'There's  Luke  Scanlon,  the  shoemaker,  for  your  boots,  sir;  and 
Reardon  the  blacksmith  for  shoeing  the  pony;  and  Miles-na- 
coppuleen,  as  they  call  him,  for  the  price  o'  the  little  crathur; 
and  the  printher  for  your  reverence's  subscription  to  the  Kerry 
Luminary;  an'  Rawley,  the  carpenther,  for  the  repairs  o'  the 
althar,  an — ' 

'Hut-tut!  he  must  settle  that  with  the  parishioners.  But  the 
others,  let  me  see.  Shoeing  myself,  fifteen  shillings;  shoeing  my 
pony,  thirteen,  four  sets;  well!  the  price  of  the  "little  crathur," 
as  you  say,  seven  pounds  ten  (and  she's  well  worth  it),  and  lastly, 
the  newspaper  man  two  pounds.' 

'But  not  lastly  intirely,'  said  Jim,  'for  there's  the  tailor—' 

'  Sixteen  and  threepence.  Jim,  Jim,  that  will  be  a  great  reduction 
on  the  thirteen  pound  fourteen.' 

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THE   COLLEGIANS 

'  Jusfwhat  I  was  thinking  pf  myself,  sir,'  said  the  clerk. 

'But  I  suppose  they  must  have  their  money.  Well,  bring  me 
in  their  bills,  and  let  them  all  write  a  settled  at  the  bottom.' 

Exit  Jim. 

'Here  they  are  all,  sir,'  he  said,  returning  with  a  parcel  of  soiled 
and  crumpled  papers  in  his  hand,  'and  Myles  Murphy  says  that 
the  agreement  about  the  pony  was  seven  pound  ten  an'  a  glass  o' 
whiskey,  an'  that  he  never  knew  a  morning  he'd  sooner  give  your 
reverence  a  recate  for  it,  than  a  frosty  one  like  this.' 

'Let  him  have  it,  Jim.  That  was  an  item  in  the  bargain, 
which  had  slipped  by  memory.  And  as  you  are  giving  it  to  him, 
take  the  bottle  and  treat  them  all  round.  They  have  a  cold  road 
before  them.' 

'It's  what  I  thought  myself,  sir,'  said  Jim. 

Father  Edward  emptied  the  bag  of  silver  and  counted  into 
several  sums  the  amount  of  all  the  bills.  When  he  had  done  so, 
he  took  in  one  hand  the  few  shillings  that  remained,  threw  them 
into  the  empty  bag,  jingled  them  a  little,  smiled  and  tossed  his 
head.  Jim,  the  clerk,  smiled  and  tossed  his  head  in  sympathy. 

'It's  aisier  emptied  than  filled,  plase  your  reverence,'  said  Jim, 
with  a  short  sigh. 

'If  it  were  not  for  the  honour  and  dignity  of  it,'  thought  Father 
Edward,  after  his  clerk  had  once  more  left  the  room,  'my  humble 
curacy  at  St.  John's  were  preferable  to  this  extensive  charge  in  so 
dreary  a  peopled  wilderness.  Quiet  lodgings,  a  civil  landlady, 
regular  hours  of  discipline,  and  the  society  of  my  oldest  friends; 
what  was  there  in  these  that  could  be  less  desirable  than  a  cold, 
small  house,  on  a  mountain-side,  total  seclusion  from  the  company 
of  my  equals,  and  a  fearful  increase  of  responsibility?  Did  the 
cause  of  preference  lie  in  the  distinction  between  the  letters  V.  P. 
and  P.  P.;  and  the  pleasure  of  paying  away  thirteen  pounds  four- 
teen shillings  at  Christmas  ?  Oh,  world!  world!  world!  You  are 
a  great  stage-coach  with  fools  for  outside  passengers;  a  huge  round 
lump  of  earth,  on  the  surface  of  which  men  seek  for  peace,  but  find 
it  only  when  they  sink  beneath.  Would  not  I  give  the  whole 
thirteen  pounds  fourteen  at  this  moment,  to  sit  once  more  in  my 
accustomed  chair  in  that  small  room,  with  the  noise  of  the  streets 
just  dying  away  as  the  evening  fell,  and  my  poor  little  Eily  reading 
to  me  from  the  window,  as  of  old,  as  innocent,  as  happy,  and  as 
dutiful  as  then?  Indeed  I  would,  and  more,  if  I  had  it.  Poor 

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THE   COLLEGIANS 

Mihil!  Ah,  Eily,  Eily!  You  deceived  me!  Well,  well!  Old 
Mihil  says  I  am  too  ready  to  preach  patience  to  him.  I  must  try 
and  practise  it  myself.' 

At  this  moment  the  parlour-door  opened  again,  and  Jim  once 
more  thrust  in  his  head. 

'A  girl,  sir,  that's  abroad,  an'  would  want  to  see  you,  if  you 
plase.' 

'Who  is  she?    What  does  she  want?    Confession,  I  suspect.' 

'Just  what  I  was  thinking  of  myself,  sir.' 

'Oh,  why  didn't  she  go  to  the  chapel  yesterday,  where  I  was 
sitting  until  ten  at  night?' 

'It's  the  very  thing  I  said  to  her  myself,  sir,  and  she  had  no 
answer  to  make,  only  wanting  to  see  you.' 

'  Who  is  she  ?     Do  you  know  her  even  by  sight  ? ' 

'No,  sir,  in  regard  she  keeps  her  head  down,  and  her  handker- 
chief to  her  mouth.  I  stooped  to  have  a  peep  undernaith,  but  if 
I  stooped  low,  she  stooped  lower,  an'  left  me  just  as  wise  as  I  was  hi 
the  beginning.' 

'Send  her  in,'  said  Father  Edward;  'I  don't  like  that  secrecy.' 

Jim  went  out,  and  presently  returned,  ushering  in  with  many 
curious  and  distrustful  glances  the  young  female  of  whom  he  had 
spoken.  Father  Edward  desired  her  to  take  a  chair,  and  then 
told  the  clerk  to  go  out  to  the  stable  and  give  the  pony  his  afternoon 
feed.  When  the  latter  had  left  the  room,  he  indulged  in  a  pre- 
liminary examination  of  the  person  of  his  visitor.  She  was  young, 
and  well  formed,  and  clothed  in  a  blue  cloak  and  bonnet,  which 
were  so  disposed,  as  she  sat,  as  to  conceal  altogether  both  her 
person  and  her  features. 

'  Well,  my  good  girl,'  said  the  clergyman,  in  an  encouraging  tone, 
'what  is  your  business  with  me?' 

The  young  female  remained  for  some  moments  silent,  and  her 
dress  moved  as  if  it  were  agitated  by  some  strong  emotion  of  her 
frame.  At  length  rising  from  her  seat,  and  tottering  towards  the 
astonished  priest,  she  knelt  down  suddenly  at  his  feet,  and  ex- 
claimed, while  she  uncovered  her  face,  with  a  burst  of  tears  and 
sobbing, '  Oh,  Uncle  Edward,  don't  you  know  me?' 

Her  uncle  started  from  his  chair.  Astonishment,  for  some 
moments,  held  him  silent  and  almost  breathless.  He  at  last 
stooped  down,  gazed  intently  on  her  face,  raised  her,  placed  her  on 
a  chair,  where  she  remained  quite  passive,  resumed  his  own  seat, 

203    * 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

and  covered  his  face,  in  silence,  with  his  hand.  Eily,  more  affected 
by  this  action  than  she  might  have  been  by  the  bitterest  reproaches, 
continued  to  weep  aloud  with  increasing  violence. 

'Don't  cry,  do  not  afflict  yourself,'  said  Father  Edward,  in  a 
quiet,  yet  cold  tone;  'there  can  be  no  use  in  that.  The  Lord  for- 
give you,  child !  Don't  cry.  Ah,  Eily  O'Connor!  I  never  thought 
it  would  be  our  fate  to  meet  in  this  manner.' 

'I  hope  you  will  forgive  me,  uncle,'  sobbed  the  poor  girl;  'I  did 
it  for  the  best,  indeed.' 

'Did  it  for  the  best,'  said  the  clergyman,  looking  on  her  for  the 
first  time  with  some  sternness.  'Now  Eily,  you  will  vex  me  if 
you  say  that  again.  I  was  in  hopes  that,  lost  as  you  are,  you  came 
to  me,  nevertheless,  in  penitence  and  in  humility  at  least,  which 
was  the  only  consolation  your  friends  could  ever  look  for.  But 
the  first  word  I  hear  from  you  is  an  excuse,  a  justification  of  your 
crime.  Did  it  for  the  best?  Don't  you  remember,  Eily,  having 
ever  read  in  that  book  that  I  was  accustomed  to  explain  to  you  in 
old  times,  don't  you  remember  that  the  excuses  of  Saul  made  his 
repentance  unaccepted  ? — and  will  you  imitate  his  example  ?  You 
did  it  for  the  best,  after  all!  I  won't  speak  of  my  own  sufferings, 
since  this  unhappy  affair,  but  there  is  your  old  father  (I  am  sorry 
to  hurt  your  feelings,  but  there  is  my  duty  to  make  you  know  the 
extent  of  your  guilt);  your  old  father  has  not  enjoyed  one  moment's 
rest  ever  since  you  left  him.  He  was  here  with  me  a  week  since, 
for  the  second  time  after  your  departure,  and  I  never  was  more 
shocked  in  all  my  life.  You  cry,  but  you  would  cry  more  bitterly 
if  you  saw  him.  When  I  knew  you  together,  he  was  a  good  father 
to  you,  and  a  happy  father,  too.  He  is  now  a  frightful  skeleton! 
Was  that  done  for  the  best,  Eily?' 

'  Oh,  no,  no,  sir,  I  did  not  mean  to  say  that  I  acted  right,  or  even 
from  a  right  intention.  I  only  meant  to  say  that  it  was  not  quite 
so  bad  as  it  might  appear.' 

'To  judge  by  your  own  appearance,  Eily,'  her  uncle  continued, 
in  a  compassionate  tone,  'one  would  say  that  its  effects  have  not 
been  productive  of  much  happiness  on  either  side.  Turn  to  the 
light;  you  are  very  thin  and  pale.  Poor  child!  poor  child!  Oh,  why 
did  you  do  this?  What  could  have  tempted  you  to  throw  away 
your  health,  your  duty,  to  destroy  your  father's  peace  of  mind, 
and  your  own  honest  reputation  all  in  a  day  ? ' 

'Uncle,'  said  Eily,  'there  is  one  point  on  which  I  fear  you  have 

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THE   COLLEGIANS 

made  a  wrong  conclusion.  I  have  been,  I  know,  sir,  very  ungrate- 
ful to  you,  and  to  my  father,  and  very  guilty  in  the  sight  of  heaven, 
but  I  am  not  quite  so  abandoned  a  creature  as  you  seem  to  believe 
me.  Disobedience,  sir,'  she  added  with  a  blush  of  the  deepest 
crimson,  'is  the  very  worst  offense  of  which  I  can  accuse  myself.' 

'What!'  exclaimed  Father  Edward,  while  his  eyes  lit  up  with 
sudden  pleasure,  'are  you,  then,  married?' 

'I  was  married,  sir,  a  month  before  I  left  my  father.' 

The  good  clergyman  seemed  to  be  more  deeply  moved  by  this 
intelligence  than  by  anything  which  had  yet  occurred  in  the  scene. 
He  winked  repeatedly  with  his  eyelids,  in  order  to  clear  away  the 
moisture  which  began  to  overspread  the  balls,  but  it  would  not  do. 
The  fountain  had  been  unlocked,  it  gushed  forth  in  a  flood,  too 
copious  to  be  restrained,  and  he  gave  up  the  contest.  He  reached  his 
hand  to  Eily,  grasped  hers,  and  shook  it  fervently  and  long,  while 
he  said,  in  a  voice  that  was  made  hoarse  and  broken  by  emotion: 

'Well,  well,  Eily,  that's  a  great  deal.  'Tis  not  everything,  but 
it  is  a  great  deal.  The  general  supposition  was  that  the  cause  of 
secrecy  could  be  no  other  than  a  shameful  one.  I  am  very  glad 
of  this,  Eily.  This  will  be  some  comfort  to  your  father.'  He 
again  pressed  her  hand,  and  shook  it  kindly,  while  Eily  wept 
upon  his  own,  like  an  infant. 

'And  where  do  you  stay  now,  Eily?  Where — who  is  your 
husband  ? ' 

Eily  appeared  distressed  at  this  question,  and,  after  some  em- 
barrassment, said :  '  My  dear  uncle,  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  answer 
you  those  questions,  at  present.  My  husband  does  not  know  of 
my  having  even  taken  this  step; — and  I  dare  not  think  of  telling 
what  he  commanded  that  I  should  keep  secret.' 

'Secrecy  still,  Eily?'  said  the  clergyman,  rising  from  his  seat 
and  walking  up  and  down  the  room  with  his  hands  behind  his 
back,  and  a  severe  expression  returning  to  his  eye.  'I  say  again, 
I  do  not  like  this  affair.  Why  should  your  husband  affect  this  deep 
concealment?  Is  he  poor?  Your  father  will  rejoice  to  find  it  no 
worse.  Is  he  afraid  of  the  resentment  of  your  friends?  Let  him 
bring  back  our  own  Eily,  and  he  will  be  received  with  arms  as 
open  as  charity.  What,  besides  conscious  guilt,  can  make  him 
thus  desirous  of  concealment?' 

'I  cannot  tell  you  his  reasons,  uncle,'  said  Eily,  timidly,  'but 
indeed  he  is  nothing  of  what  you  say.' 

205 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

*  Well,,  and  how  do  you  live  then,  Eily?  With  his  friends,  or 
how?  If  you  will  not  tell  where,  you  may  at  least  tell  how? 

'It  is  not  will  not  with  me,  indeed,  Uncle  Edward,  but  dare  not. 
My  first  act  of  disobedience  cost  me  dearly  enough,  and  I  dare  not 
attempt  a  second.' 

'Well,  well,'  replied  her  uncle,  a  little  annoyed,  'you  have  more 
logic  than  I  thought  you  had.  I  must  not  press  you  farther  on 
that  head.  But  how  do  you  live?  Where  do  you  hear  mass  on 
Sundays  ?  Or  do  you  hear  it  regularly  at  all  ? ' 

Eily's  drooping  head  and  long  silence  gave  answer  in  the  negative. 

'Do  you  go  to  mass  every  Sunday  at  least?  You  used  to  hear 
it  every  day,  and  a  blessing  fell  on  you,  and  on  your  house,  while 
you  did  so.  Do  you  attend  it  now  on  Sunday  itself  ? ' 

Eily  continued  silent. 

'Did  you  hear  mass  a  single  Sunday  at  all  since  you  left  home?' 
he  asked  in  increasing  amazement. 

Eily  answered  in  a  whisper  between  her  teeth,  'Not  one.' 

The  good  religious  lifted  up  his  hands  to  heaven  and  then  suf- 
fered them  to  fall  motionless  by  his  side.  'Oh,  you  poor  child!' 
he  exclaimed;  'may  the  Lord  forgive  you  your  sins!  It  is  no 
wonder  that  you  should  be  ashamed,  and  afraid,  and  silent.' 

A  pause  of  some  moments  now  ensued,  which  was  eventually 
broken  by  the  clergyman. 

'And  what  was  your  object  in  coming,  then,  if  you  had  it  not  in 
your  power  to  tell  me  anything  that  could  enable  me  to  be  of  some 
assistance  to  you?' 

'I  came,  sir,'  said  Eily,  'in  the  hope  that  you  would,  in  a  kinder 
manner  than  anybody  else,  let  my  father  know  all  that  I  have  told 
you,  and  inform  him,  moreover,  that  I  hope  it  will  not  be  long  before 
I  am  allowed  to  ask  his  pardon,  with  my  own  lips,  for  all  the  sorrow 
that  I  have  caused  him.  I  was  afraid,  if  I  had  asked  my  husband's 
permission  to  make  this  journey,  it  might  have  been  refused.  I 
will  now  return  and  persuade  him  if  I  can,  to  come  here  with  me 
again  this  week.' 

Father  Edward  again  paused  for  a  considerable  time,  and  eventu- 
ally addressed  his  niece  with  a  deep  seriousness  of  voice  and  manner. 
'Eily,'  he  said,  'a  strong  light  has  broken  in  upon  me  respecting 
your  situation.  I  fear  this  man,  in  whom  you  trust  so  much  and  so 
generously,  and  to  whose  will  you  show  so  perfect  an  obedience, 
is  not  a  person  fit  to  be  trusted,  nor  obeyed.  You  are  married,  I 

206 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

think,  to  one  who  is  not  proud  of  his  wife.  Stay  with  me,  Eily,  I 
advise — I  warn  you.  It  appears  by  your  own  words  that  this  man 
is  already  a  tyrant;  he  loves  you  not,  and  from  being  despotic,  he 
may  grow  dangerous.  Remain  with  me,  and  write  him  a  letter. 
I  do  not  judge  the  man.  I  speak  only  from  general  probabilities, 
and  these  would  suggest  the  great  wisdom  of  your  acting  as  I  say.' 

'I  dare  not,  I  could  not,  would  not,  do  so,'  said  Eily.  'You 
never  were  more  mistaken  in  anybody's  character  than  hi  his  of 
whom  you  are  speaking.  If  I  did  not  fear,  I  love  him  far  too  well 
to  treat  him  with  so  little  confidence.  When  next  we  meet,  uncle, 
you  shall  know  the  utmost  of  my  apprehensions.  At  present  I  can 
say  no  more.  And  the  time  is  passing,  too,'  she  continued,  looking 
at  the  sunshine  which  traversed  the  little  room  with  a  ray  more 
faint  and  more  oblique.  'I  am  pledged  to  return  this  evening. 
Well,  my  dear  uncle,  good-bye!  I  hope  to  bring  you  back  a  better 
niece  than  you  are  parting  with  now.  Trust  all  to  me  for  two  or 
three  days  more,  and  Eily  never  will  have  a  secret  again  from  her 
uncle,  nor  her  father.' 

'Good-bye,  child,  good-bye,  Eily,'  said  the  clergyman,  much 
affected.  'Stay — stay!'  he  exclaimed,  as  a  sudden  thought  entered 
his  head.  'Come  here,  Eily,  an  instant.'  He  took  up  the  linen 
bag  before  mentioned  and  shook  out  into  his  hand  the  remaining 
silver  of  his  dues.  'Eily,'  said  he,  with  a  smile,  'it  is  a  long  time 
since  Uncle  Edward  gave  you  a  Christmas-box.  Here  is  one  for 
you.  Open  your  hand,  now,  if  you  do  not  wish  to  offend  me. 
Good-bye,  good-bye,  my  poor,  darling  child!  '  He  kissed  her 
cheek,  and  then,  as  if  reproaching  himself  for  an  excess  of  leniency, 
he  added  in  a  more  stern  accent,  'I  hope,  Eily,  that  this  may  be  the 
last  time  I  shall  have  to  part  from  my  niece  without  being  able  to 
tell  her  name.' 

Eily  had  no  other  answer  than  her  tears,  which,  in  most  instances, 
were  the  most  persuasive  arguments  she  could  employ. 

'She  is  an  affectionate  creature,  after  all,'  said  Father  Edward, 
when  his  niece  had  left  the  house — 'a  simple,  affectionate  little 
creature,  but  I  was  in  the  right  to  be  severe  with  her,'  he  added, 
giving  himself  credit  for  more  than  he  deserved;  'her  conduct 
called  for  some  severity,  and  I  was  in  the  right  to  exercise  it  in  the 
way  I  did.' 

So  saying,  he  returned  to  his  chair  by  the  fireside,  and  resumed 
the  reading  of  his  interrupted  Office. 

207 


THE   COLLEGIANS 
CHAPTER  XXVI 

HOW  HARDRESS  CONSOLED  HIMSELF  DURING  HIS  SEPARATION  FROM 

EILY 

DANNY  the  Lord  did  not,  as  Eily  was  tempted  to  fear,  neglect 
the  delivery  of  her  letter  to  Hardress.  Night  had  surprised 
him  on  his  way  to  Mr.  Cregan's  cottage.  A  bright  crescent  shed 
its  light  over  the  lofty  Toomies,  and  flung  his  own  stunted  shadow 
on  the  limestone  road,  as  he  drudged  along,  breathing  now  and 
then  on  his  cold  fingers,  and  singing: 

'  Oh,  did  you  not  hear  of  Kate  Kearney, 
Who  lives  on  de  Banks  of  Killarney? 

From  the  glance  of  her  eye, 

Shun  danger  and  fly, 
For  fatal's  de  glance  of  Kate  Kearney.' 

He  had  turned  in  upon  the  road  which  led  to  Aghadoe,  and  beheld 
at  a  short  distance  the  ruined  church,  and  the  broken  gravestones 
which  were  scattered  around  its  base.  Danny,  with  the  caution 
which  he  had  learned  from  his  infancy,  suppressed  his  unhallowed 
song  as  he  approached  this  mournful  retreat,  and  stepped  along 
with  a  softer  pace  in  order  to  avoid  attracting  the  attention  of  any 
spiritual  loiterers  in  his  neighbourhood.  The  grave  of  poor  Dalton, 
the  huntsman,  was  amongst  the  many  which  he  beheld,  and  Danny 
knew  that  it  was  generally  reported  amongst  the  peasantry  that 
his  host  had  been  frequently  seen  in  the  act  of  exercising,  after 
death,  that  vocation  to  which,  during  life,  he  had  been  so  ardently 
attached.  Danny,  who  had  no  ambition  to  become  a  subject  for 
the  view-halloo  to  his  sporting  acquaintance,  kept  on  the  shady  side 
of  the  road,  in  the  hope  that  by  this  means  he  might  be  enabled  to 
'  stale  by,  unknowns!.' 

Suddenly,  the  night  wind,  which  hurried  after,  bore  to  his  ear 
the  sound  of  several  voices,  which  imitated  the  yelling  of  hounds  in 
chase  and  the  fox-hunters'  cry.  Danny  started  aghast  with  terror, 
a  heavy  and  turbid  sensation  pressed  upon  his  nerves,  and  all  his 
limbs  grew  damp.  He  crossed  himself,  and  drew  close  to  the  dry- 
stone  wall  which  bounded  the  roadside. 

'Hoicks!  Come! — Come! — Come  away!  Come  away!  Hoicks!' 
was  shouted  at  the  top  of  a  voice  that  one  might  easily  judge  had 
sounded  the  death-knell  of  many  a  wily  reynard.  The  cry  was 

208 


caught  up  and  echoed  at  various  distances  by  three  less  practised 
voices.  The  ringing  of  horses'  hoofs  against  the  hard  and  frosty 
road  was  the  next  sound  that  encountered  the  ear  of  the  little  lord. 
It  approached  rapidly  nearer,  and  grew  too  sharp  and  hard  to 
suppose  that  it  could  be  occasioned  by  any  concussion  of  immaterial 
substances.  It  proved,  indeed,  to  be  a  danger  of  a  more  positive 
and  actual  kind.  Our  traveller  perceived  in  a  few  minutes,  that 
the  noise  proceeded  from,  three  drunken  gentlemen  who  were 
returning  from  a  neighbouring  debauch,  and  urging  their  horses 
forward  to  the  summit  of  their  speed,  with  shouts  and  gestures 
which  gave  them  the  appearance  of  demoniacs. 

The  foremost,  perceiving  Danny  Mann,  pulled  up  his  horse 
with  a  violent  check,  and  the  others,  as  they  approached,  imitated 
his  example.  The  animals  (who  were  worthy  of  kinder  masters) 
appeared  to  participate  in  the  intoxication  of  their  riders.  Their 
eyes  flared,  their  mouths  were  hid  in  foam,  and  they  snorted  in 
impatient  scorn  of  the  delay  to  which  they  were  subjected. 

'Tally!'  cried  the  first  who  galloped  up.  'Ware  bailiff!  Who 
are  you  ? ' 

'A  poor  man,  sir,  dat's  going  de  road  to — ' 

'Hoicks!  A  bailiff!  Come,  come  away!  Don't  I  know  you, 
you  limb  of  mischief?  Give  me  out  your  processes,  or  I'll  beat 
you  into  a  jelly.  Kneel  down  there,  on  the  road,  until  I  ride 
over  you!' 

'Dat  de  hands  may  stick  to  me,  sir,  if  I  have  a  process  in  de 
world.' 

'Kneel  down,  I  say!'  repeated  the  drunken  horseman,  shaking 
his  whip  loose,  and  applying  it  several  times,  with  all  his  might,  to 
the  shoulders  of  the  recusant.  'Lie  down  on  the  road  until  I  ride 
over  you  and  trample  your  infernal  brains  out!' 

'Pink  him!  Sweat  him!  Pink  the  rascal!'  cried  another 
horseman,  riding  rapidly  up,  and  flourishing  a  naked  sword.  '  Put 
up  your  whip,  Connolly,  out  with  your  sword,  man,  and  let  us  pink 
the  scoundrel.' 

'Do  as  Creagh  bids  you,  Connolly,'  exclaimed  a  third,  who  was 
as  drunk  again  as  the  other  two.  '  Out  with  your  blade  and  pi — 
pink  the  ras — rascal.' 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  a  run,  and  Danny  took  to  his  heels 
like  a  fawn.  This  measure,  however,  gave  a  new  zest  to  the  sport. 
The  gentleman  galloped  after  him,  with  loud  shouts  of  'Hoicks!' 

209 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

and  'Tally!'  and  overtook  him  at  a  part  of  the  road  which  was 
enclosed  by  hedges  too  close  and  high  to  admit  any  escape  into 
the  fields.  Knowing  well  the  inhuman  desperation  with  which 
the  gentlemen  of  the  day  were  accustomed  to  follow  up  freaks  of 
this  kind,  Danny  felt  his  heart  sink  as  low  as  if  he  had  been  pursued 
by  a  rooted  enemy.  While  he  glanced  in  terror  from  one  side  to 
another,  and  saw  himself  cut  off  from  all  chance  of  safety,  he  re- 
ceived a  blow  on  the  head  from  the  loaded  handle  of  a  whip,  which 
stunned,  staggered,  and  finally  laid  him  prostrate  on  the  earth. 

'I  have  him!'  shouted  his  pursuer.  'Here  he  is,  as  cool  as 
charity.  I'll  trample  the  rascal's  brains  out ! ' 

So  saying,  he  reined  up  his  horse,  and  endeavoured,  by  every 
species  of  threat  and  entreaty,  to  make  the  chafed  and  fiery  steed 
set  down  his  iron  hoof  upon  the  body  of  the  prostrate  lord.  But 
the  animal,  true  to  that  noble  instinct  which  distinguishes  the  more 
generous  individuals  of  his  species,  refused  to  fall  in  with  the  bloody 
humour  of  his  rider.  He  set  his  feet  apart,  demi-volted  to  either 
side,  and  would  not,  by  any  persuasion  or  sleight  of  horsemanship, 
by  prevailed  upon  to  injure  the  fallen  man. 

Danny,  recovering  from  the  stunning  effects  of  the  blow,  and 
perceiving  the  gentlemen  hemming  him  round  with  then-  swords, 
now  sought,  in  an  appeal  to  their  mercies,  that  security  which  he 
could  not  obtain  by  flight.  He  knelt  before  them,  lifted  up  his 
hands,  and  implored  compassion  in  accents  which  would  have  been 
irresistible  by  any  but  drunken  gentlemen  on  a  pinking  frolic. 
But  his  cries  were  drowned  in  the  savage  shouts  of  his  beleaguerers. 
Their  swords  gathered  round  him  in  a  fearful  circle,  and  Creagh 
commenced  operations  by  a  thrust  in  the  arm,  which  left  a  gash  of 
nearly  half  an  inch  in  depth.  His  companions,  who  did  not  possess 
the  same  dexterity  in  the  exercise  of  the  weapon,  and  were,  neverthe- 
less, equally  free  of  its  use,  thrust  so  frequently,  and  with  so  much 
awkardness,  that  the  unfortunate  deformed  ran  a  considerable  risk 
of  losing  his  life.  He  had  already  received  several  gashes  in  the  face 
and  limbs,  and  was  growing  faint  with  pain  and  anxiety,  when  the 
voice  of  a  fourth  horseman  was  heard  at  a  little  distance,  and  young 
Hardress  Cregan,  as  little  self-possessed  as  the  rest,  galloped  into 
the  group.  He  drew  his  small  sword,  flourished  it  in  the  moonlight 
with  a  fierce  halloo !  that  was  echoed  far  away  among  the  lakes  and 
mountains,  and  prepared  to  join  in  the  fun.  But  one  glance  was 
sufficient  to  enable  him  to  recognize  his  servant. 


210 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'Connolly,  hold!  Hold  off,  Creagh!  Hold,  or  111  stab  you!' 
he  cried  aloud,  while  he  struck  up  their  swords  with  passion.  'How 
dared  you  set  upon  my  servant?  You  are  both  drunk!  go  home 
or  I'll  hash  you!' 

'Drunk!'  said  his  father;  'pup — puppy!  wha — what  do  you  call 
d—d— drunk?  D— d— <Tyou  say  I'm  drunk?  Eh?'  And  he 
endeavoured,  but  without  much  success,  to  assume  a  steady  and 
dignified  posture  in  his  saddle. 

'No,  sir,'  said  Hardress,  who  merited  his  own  censure  as  richly 
as  any  one  present;  'but — a — th — these  two  gentlemen  are.' 

'D'ye  hear  that,  Creagh?'  said  Connolly;  'come  along  and  show 
him  if  we're  drunk.  Look  here,  Mister  Slenderlimbs!  Do  you 
see  that  road?' 

'I — I  do,'  said  Hardress,  who  might  have  conscientiously  sworn 
to  seeing  more  than  one. 

'And  do  you — (look  here!) — do  you  see  this  horse?' 

'I  do,'  said  Hardress,  with  some  gravity  of  deliberation. 

'And  do  you  see  me?'  shouted  the  querist, 

'And  raised  upon  his  desperate  foot 
On  stirrup-side,  he  gazed  about.' 

'Ve — very — well!  You  see  that  road,  and  you  see  my  horse, 
and  you  see  me!  Ve — very  well.  Now  could  a  drunken  man  do 
this?  Yo — hoicks!  Come!  come!  come  away!  hoicks!'  And 
so  saying,  he  drove  the  rowels  into  his  horse's  flank,  stooped  forward 
on  his  seat,  and  galloped  away  with  a  speed  that  made  the  night  air 
whistle  by  his  ears.  He  was  followed,  at  an  emulative  rate,  by 
Hyland  Creagh  and  the  elder  Cregan. 

Hardress  now  assisted  the  afflicted  Danny  to  mount  behind  him, 
and  putting  spurs  to  his  horse,  rode  after  his  companions,  at  a  pace 
but  little  inferior,  in  point  of  speed,  to  that  which  they  had  used. 

Arrived  at  the  cottage,  he  bade  Danny  follow  him  into  the  draw- 
ing-room, where  there  was  a  cheerful  fire.  The  other  gentlemen, 
in  the  meantime,  had  possessed  themselves  of  the  dining-pariour, 
and  were  singing  in  astounding  chorus  the  melody  which  begins 
with  this  verse: 

'Come!  each  jolly  fellow 

That  loves  to  be  mellow, 
Attend  unto  me  and  sit  easy; 

One  jorum  in  quiet, 

My  boys  we  will  try  it, 
Dull  thinking  will  make  a  man  crazy,' 

211 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

The  ladies,  who  had  spent  the  evening  out,  were  not  yet  returned, 
and  Hardress,  much  against  the  will  of  the  affrighted  boatman, 
insisted  upon  Danny's  taking  his  seat  before  the  fire  in  Mrs.  Gregan's 
arm-chair. 

'Sit  down  there!'  he  exclaimed,  with  violence,  seizing  him  by  the 
collar,  and  forcing  him  into  the  seat.  '  Know,  fellow,  that  if  I  bid 
you  sit  on  a  throne  you  are  fit  to  fill  it! — You  are  a  king,  Danny!' 
he  added,  standing  unsteadily  before  his  servant,  with  one  hand 
thrust  between  his  ample  shirt-frills  and  the  other  extended  in  an 
oratorical  attitude;  'you  are  a  king,  in  heart,  though  not  in  birth. 
But,  tush!  as  Sterne  says, — are  we  not  all  relations?  Look  at 
this  hand!  I  admire  you,  Danny  Mann!  I  respect  I — venerate 
you — I  think  you  a  respectable  person,  in  your  class,  respectable 
in  your  class,  and  what  more  could  be  expected  from  a  king?  I 
admire — I  love  you,  Danny! — You  are  a  king  in  heart! — though 
not,'  he  repeated,  lowering  the  tone  of  his  eulogy  while  he  fixed 
his  half-closed  eyes  upon  the  deplorable  figure  of  the  little  lord, 
'though  not  in  appearance.' 

Anybody  who  could  contemplate  Danny's  person  at  this  moment 
might  have  boldly  joined  in  the  assertion  that  he  was  not  'a  king 
in  appearance.'  The  poor  little  hunchback  sat  forward  in  the 
chair  in  a  crouching  attitude,  half  terrified,  and  abashed  by  the 
finery  with  which  he  was  surrounded.  His  joints  were  stiffening 
from  the  cold,  his  dress  sparkling  with  a  hoar-frost,  and  his  face 
of  a  wretched  white  wherever  it  was  not  discoloured  by  the  clotted 
blood.  At  every  noise  he  half  started  from  his  seat  with  the  ex- 
clamation, 'Tunder  alive!  it's  de  missiz!' 

'Nancy!'  Hardress  said,  addressing  the  old  woman  who  came 
to  answer  the  bell, '  Nancy,  draw  that  table  near  the  fire  there, 
and  slip  into  the  dining-parlour,  do  you  hear?  and  bring  me  here 
the  whiskey,  a  jug  of  hot  water,  a  bowl,  two  glasses,  and  a  lemon. 
Don't  say  a  word  to  the  gentlemen — I'll  take  a  quiet  glass  here  in 
comfort  with  Danny — ' 

'With  Danny !'  exclaimed  the  old  woman,  throwing  up  her  hands. 

'Oh,  dat  I  mightn't  sin,  master,  if  I  dare  do  it!'  said  Danny, 
springing  out  of  the  chair.  'I'll  be  kilt  be  de  missiz.' 

'Stay  where  you  are!'  said  Hardress.  'And  you,  woman!  do 
as  you're  bid!' 

He  was  obeyed.  The  lord,  in  vain  ennobled,  returned  to  his  seat; 
and  the  bewildered  Nancy  laid  on  the  table  the  materials  in  demand. 

212 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'Danny,'  said  Hardress,  filling  out  a  brimming  glass  to  his  de- 
pendent, '  when  the  winds  of  autumn  raved,  and  the  noble  Shannon 
ruffled  his  grey  pate  against  the  morning  sun;  when  the  porpoise 
rolled  his  black  bulk  amid  the  spray  and  foam,  and  the  shrouds 
sung  sharp  against  the  cutting  breeze — do  you  understand  me?' 

'Iss,  partly,  sir.' 

'In  those  moments,  then,  of  high  excitement  and  of  triumph, 
with  that  zest  which  danger  gives  to  enjoyment,  when  every  cloud 
that  darkened  on  the  horizon  sent  forth  an  additional  blast,  a  fresh 
trumpeter  amongst  the  Tritons  to  herald  our  destruction,  when 
our  best  hope  was  in  our  own  stout  hands,  and  our  dearest  consola- 
tion that  of  the  Trojan  leader — 

HCBC  olim  meminisse  juvabitl 

Do  you  understand  that  ? ' 

'It's  Latin,  sir,  I'm  thinking.' 

'Probatum  estl    When  the  struggle  grew  so  close  between  our 
own  stout  little  vessel  and  her  invisible  aerial  foe,  as  to  approach 
the  climax  of  contention,  the  point  of  contact  between  things 
irresistible  and  things  immovable,  the 
— do  you  understand  ? ' 

'More  Latin,  sir?' 

'  That's  Greek,  you  goose/ 

'It's  all  Greek  to  me,'  said  Danny. 

'But  in  those  moments,  my  fidus  Achates,  you  often  joined  me 
in  a  simple  aquatic  meal,  and  why  not  now  ?  This  is  my  conclusion. 
Why  not  now?  Major — We  used  to  drink  together — minor — We 
wish  to  drink  together — conclusion — We  ought  to  drink  together.' 
And  following  up  in  act  a  conclusion  so  perfectly  rational,  the 
collegian  (who  was  only  pedantic  in  his  maudlin  hours)  hurried 
swiftly  out  of  sight  the  contents  of  his  own  lofty  glass. 

Danny  timidly  imitated  his  example,  at  the  same  time  drawing 
from  inside  the  lining  of  his  hat  the  letter  of  the  unhappy  Eily. 
Intoxicated  as  he  was,  the  sight  of  this  well-known  hand  produced 
a  strong  effect  upon  her  unprincipled  husband.  His  eyelid  quivered, 
his  hand  trembled,  and  a  black  expression  swept  across  his  face. 
He  thrust  the  letter,  opened  but  still  unread,  into  his  waistcoat 
pocket,  refilled  his  glass,  and  called  on  Danny  for  a  song. 

'A  song,  Master  Hardress!  Oh,  dat  I  may  be  happy,  if  I'd 
raise  my  voice  in  dis  room  for  all  Europe! ' 

213 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'Sit  in  that  chair  and  sing!'  exclaimed  Hardress,  clenching  his 
hand,  and  extending  it  towards  the  recusant,  'or  I'll  pin  you  to  that 
door!' 

Thus  enforced,  the  rueful  Danny  returned  to  the  chair  which 
he  had  once  more  deserted,  and  after  clearing  his  throat  by  a  fresh 
appeal  to  the  glass,  he  sang  a  little  melody  which  may  yet  be  heard 
at  evening  in  the  western  villages.  Hardress  was  enchanted  with 
the  air,  the  words,  and  the  style  of  the  singer.  He  made  Danny 
repeat  it  until  he  became  hoarse,  and  assisted  to  bear  the  burthen 
himself  with  more  of  noise  than  good  taste  or  correctness.  The 
little  lord,  as  he  dived  deeper  into  the  bowl,  began  to  lose  his  self- 
restraint,  and  to  forget  the  novelty  of  his  situation.  He  rivalled 
his  master  in  noise  and  volubility,  and  no  longer  showed  the  least 
reluctance  or  timidity  when  commanded  to  chaunt  out  the  favourite 
lay  for  the  seventh  time,  at  least: 


'My  mamma  she  bought  me  a  camlet  coat-gown, 
Made  in  de  fashion,  wit  de  tail  of  it  down, 
A  dimity  petticoat  whiter  dan  chalk, 
An1  a  pair  o'  bow  slippers  to  help  me  to  walk. 
An'  it's  Ora  wisha,  Dan'el  asthore! 

n. 

I've  a  nice  little  dog  to  bark  at  my  doore, 
A  nate  little  besom  to  sweep  up  de  floore, 
Everyting  else  dat  is  fit  for  good  use, 
Two  ducks  and  a  gander,  besides  an  old  goose, 
An'  it's  Ora  wisha,  Dan'el  asthore.' 

'Well,  why  do  you  stop?  What  do  you  stare  at?*  Hardress 
asked,  perceiving  the  vocalist  suddenly  lower  his  voice,  and  slinge 
away  from  the  table,  while  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  farther  end 
of  the  room.  The  collegian  looked  in  the  same  direction,  and 
beheld  the  figure  of  a  young  female,  in  a  ball-dress  of  unusual 
splendour,  standing  as  if  fixed  in  astonishment.  Her  black  hair, 
which  hung  loose  around  her  head,  was  decorated  with  one  small 
sprig  of  pearls,  a  necklace  of  the  same  costly  material  rested  on  her 
bosom,  and  was  in  part  concealed  by  the  bright-coloured  silk 
kerchief  which  was  drawn  around  her  shoulders.  On  one  arm 
she  held  the  fur-trimmed  cloak  and  heavy  shawl  which  she  had 
just  removed  from  her  person,  and  which  were  indicative  of  a  recent 

214 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

exposure  to  the  frosty  air.  Indeed,  nothing  but  the  uproarious 
mirth  of  the  ill-assorted  revellers  could  have  prevented  their  hear- 
ing the  wheels  of  the  carriage  as  they  grated  along  the  gravel-plat 
before  the  hall-door.  This  venerable  vehicle  was  sent  to  set  the 
ladies  down  by  the  positive  desire  of  their  hostess,  and  Mrs.  Cregan 
accepted  it  in  preference  to  her  own  open  curricle,  although  she 
knew  that  a  more  crazy  and  precarious  mode  of  conveyance  could 
not  be  found,  even  among  the  ships  marked  with  the  very  last  letter 
on  Lloyd's  list. 

Recognizing  his  cousin,  Hardress  endeavoured  to  assume  towards 
Danny  Mann  an  air  of  dignified  condescension  and  maudlin 
majesty,  which  formed  a  ludicrous  contrast  to  the  convivial  free- 
dom of  his  manner  a  few  moments  before. 

'Very  well,  my  man/  he  said,  liquefying  the  consonants  in  every 
word.  '  Go  out  now,  go  to  the  kitchen,  and  I'll  hear  the  remainder 
of  your  story  in  the  morning.' 

Danny  fell  cunningly  into  the  deception  of  his  master,  to  whom 
he  now  evinced  a  profundity  of  respect,  as  if  to  banish  the  idea  of 
equality  which  the  foregoing  scene  might  have  suggested. 

'  Iss,  plase  your  honour ! '  he  said,  bowing  repeatedly  down  to  his 
knees,  and  brushing  his  hat  back  until  it  swept  the  floor,  'long 
life  and  glory  to  your  honour,  Master  Hardress,  an'  'tis  I  dat  would 
be  lost  if  il  wasn't  for  your  goodness.  Oh,  murder,  murder!'  he 
added,  to  himself,  as  he  scoured  out  of  the  room,  describing  a  wide 
circuit  to  avoid  Miss  Chute,  'I'll  be  fairly  flayed  alive  on  de  'count 
of  it.' 

'Well,  Anne?'  said  Hardress,  rising  and  moving  towards  her 
with  some  unsteadiness  of  gait.  'I — I'm  glad  to  see  you,  Anne; 
we're  just  come  home:  very  pleasant  night,  pleasant  fellows, 
very,  very  pleasant  fellows,  some  cap — capital  songs.  I  was 
wishing  for  you,  Anne.  Had  you  a  pleasant  night  where  you  were  ? 
Who — who  did  you  dance  with?  Come,  Anne,  we'll  dance  a 
minuet — min — minuet  de  la  cour.' 

'Excuse  me,'  said  Anne  coldly,  as  she  turned  towards  the  door, 
'not  at  this  hour,  certainly.' 

'A  fig  for  the  hour,  Anne.  Hours  were  made  for  slaves.  Anne, 
oh,  Anne!  You  look  beautiful— beautiful  to-night!  Oh,  Anne! 
Time  flies,  youth  fades,  and  age,  with  slow  and  withering  pace, 
comes  on  before  we  hear  his  footfall!'  Here  he  sang  in  a  loud,  but 
broken  voice — 

215 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'Then  follow,  follow, 
Follow,  follow, 
Follow,  follow  pleasure! 
There's  no  drinking  in  the  grave!' 

'Oh,  Anne!  that's  as  true  as  if  the  Stagyrite  had  penned  it. 
Worms,  Anne,  worms  and  silence!  Come,  one  minuet!  Lay 
by  your  cloak — 

'And  follow,  follow, 
Follow,  follow, 
Follow,  follow  pleasure! 
There's  no  dancing  in  the  grave !! 

'Let  me  pass,  if  you  please,'  said  Miss  Chute,  still  cold  and  lofty, 
while  she  endeavoured  to  get  to  the  door. 

'Not  awhile,  Anne, '  replied  Hardress,  catching  her  hand. 

'Stand  back,  sir!'  exclaimed  the  offended  girl,  drawing  up  her 
person  in  the  attitude  of  a  Minerva,  while  her  forehead  glowed, 
and  her  eye  flashed  with  indignation.  'If  you  forget  yourself, 
do  not  suppose  that  I  am  inclined  to  commit  the  same  oversight.' 
Saying  this,  she  walked  out  of  the  room  with  the  air  of  an  offended 
princess,  leaving  Hardress  a  little  struck  and  sobered  by  the  sudden 
change  in  her  manner. 

Lifting  up  his  eyes  after  a  pause  of  some  moments,  he  beheld 
his  mother  standing  near,  and  looking  on  him  with  an  eye  in  which 
the  loftiness  of  maternal  rebuke  was  mingled  with  an  expression 
of  sneering  and  satirical  reproach. 

'You  are  a  wise  young  gentleman,'  she  said,  'you  have  done 
well.  Fool  that  you  are,  you  have  destroyed  yourself.'  Without 
bestowing  another  word  upon  him,  Mrs.  Cregan  took  one  of  the 
candles  in  her  hand  and  left  the  room. 

Hardress  had  sufficient  recollection  to  follow  her  example.  He 
took  the  other  light  and  endeavoured,  but  with  many  errors,  to 
navigate  his  way  towards  the  door.  'Destroyed  myself!'  he  said, 
as  he  proceeded.  'Why  where's  the  mighty  harm  of  taking  a 
cheerful  glass  on  a  winter's  night  with  a  friend  ?  A  friend,  Hardress  ? 
Yes,  a  friend,  but  what  a  friend  ?  Danny  Mann,  alias  Danny  the 
Lord,  my  boatman.  It  won't  do,'  shaking  his  head.  'It  sounds 
badly.  I'm  afraid  I  did  something  to  offend  Anne  Chute.  I'm 
sorry  for  it,  because  I  respect  her;  I  respect  you,  Anne,  in  my  very, 
very  heart.  But  I'm  ill-used,  and  I  ought  to  have  satisfaction; 
Creagh  has  pinked  my  boatman.  I'll  send  him  a  message,  that's 

216 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

clear;  I'll  not  be  hiring  boatmen  for  him  to  be  pinking  for  his  amuse- 
ment. Let  him  pink  their  master  if  he  can.  That's  the  chat,' 
snapping  his  fingers.  'Danny  Mann  costs  me  twelve  pounds  a 
year  besides  his  feeding  and  clothing,  and  I'll  not  have  him  pinked 
by  old  Hyland  Creagh  afterwards.  Pink  me  if  he  can;  let  him 
leave  my  boatman  alone!  That's  the  chat!  This  floor  goes  star- 
board and  larboard,  up  and  down,  like  the  poop  of  a  ship;  up  and 
— Hallo !  who  are  you  ?  Oh,  it's  only  the  door.  I  have  broke  my 
nose  against  it.  And  if  I  break  my  own  nose  without  any  reason 
at  this  time  o'  day,  what  usage  can  I  expect  from  Creagh,  or 
anybody  else  ? ' 

Having  arrived  at  this  wise  conclusion,  he  sallied  out  of  the  room, 
rubbing  with  one  hand  the  bridge  of  the  afflicted  feature,  and 
elevating  in  the  other  the  light  which  he  still  held  with  a  most 
retentive  grasp.  As  the  long  and  narrow  hall  which  lay  between 
him  and  the  bed-chamber  formed  a  direct  railroad  way,  which 
it  was  impossible  even  for  a  drunken  man  to  miss,  he  reached  the 
little  dormitory  without  farther  accident.  The  other  gentlemen 
had  been  already  borne  away  unresisting  from  the  parlour,  and 
transmitted  from  the  arms  of  Mike  to  those  of  Morpheus. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

HOW    HARDRESS    ANSWERED    THE    LETTER    OF    EILY 

'  '\7'OU  have  destroyed  yourself!'  Mrs.  Cregan  repeated  on  the 
JL  following  morning,  as  she  sat  in  the  breakfast-parlour  in 
angry  communion  with  our  collegian.  'If  you  have  any  desire  to 
redeem  even  a  portion  of  her  forfeited  esteem,  now  is  your  time. 
She  is  sitting  alone  in  the  drawing-room,  and  I  have  prevailed  on 
her  to  see  you  for  a  few  moments.  She  returns  in  two  or  three  days 
to  Castle  Chute,  where  she  is  to  Christmas,  and  unless  you  are  able 
to  make  your  peace  before  her  departure,  I  know  not  how  long  the 
war  may  last.' 

'Yes,'  said  Hardress,  with  a  look  of  deep  anguish,  'I  shall  go  and 
meet  her  on  the  spot  where  I  dared  to  insult  her!  Insult  Anne 
Chute  ?  Why,  if  my  brain  had  turned— if  lunacy,  instead  of  drunk- 
enness, had  set  a  blind  upon  my  reason  at  the  time,  I  thought  my 

217 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

heart  at,  least  would  have  directed  me.  Mother,  don't  ask  me  to 
see  her  there,  I  could  tear  my  very  flesh  for  anger;  I  never  will 
forgive  myself,  and  how,  then,  can  I  seek  forgiveness  from  her?' 

'  Go — go !  That  speech  might  have  done  much  for  you  if  it  had 
been  properly  addressed.  Go  to  her.' 

'I  will,'  said  Hardress,  setting  his  teeth,  and  rising  with  a  look 
of  forced  resolution.  'I  know  that  it  is  merely  a  courting  of  ruin, 
a  hastening  and  confirming  of  my  own  black  destiny,  and  yet  I 
will  go  and  seek  her.  I  cannot  describe  to  you  the  sensation  that 
attracts  my  feet  at  this  moment  in  the  direction  of  the  drawing- 
room.  There  is  a  demon  leading,  and  a  demon  driving  me  on,  and 
I  know  them  well  and  plainly,  and  yet  I  will  not  choose  but  go. 
The  way  is  torture,  and  the  end  is  hell,  and  I  know  it,  and  I  go! 
And  there  is  one  sweet  spirit,  one  trembling,  pitying  angel  that 
waves  me  back  with  its  pale,  fair  hands,  and  strives  to  frown  in 
its  kindness,  and  points  that  way  to  the  hills!  Mother!  mother! 
the  day  may  come  when  you  will  wish  a  burning  brand  had  seared 
those  lips  athwart  before  they  said — "Go  to  her!" 

'What  do  you  mean?'  said  Mrs.  Cregan,  with  some  indignant 
surprise. 

'Well,  well,  am  I  not  going?  Do  I  not  say  I  go?'  continued 
Hardress.  '  I«  it  not  enough  if  I  comply  ?  May  I  not  talk  ?  May 
I  not  rant  a  little?  My  heart  will  burst  if  I  do  these  things  in 
silence.' 

'Come,  Hardress,  you  are  far  too  sensitive  a  lover — ' 

'A  what?'  cried  Hardress,  springing  to  his  feet,  and  with  a  fierce- 
ness of  tone  and  look  that  made  his  mother  start. 

'Pooh!  pooh!  A  cousin,  then — a  good,  kind  cousin,  but  too 
sensitive.' 

'Yes — yes,'  muttered  Hardress,  'I  am  not  yet  damned.  The 
sentence  is  above  my  head,  but  it  is  not  spoken;  the  scarlet  sin 
is  willed,  but  not  recorded.  Mother,  have  patience  with  me!  I 
will  not,  I  cannot,  I  dare  not  see  Anne  Chute  this  morning.'  And 
he  again  sunk  into  his  chair. 

Mrs.  Cregan,  who  attributed  all  those  manifestations  of  reluctance 
and  remorse  (which  her  son  had  evinced  during  their  frequent 
interviews)  to  the  recollection  of  some  broken  promise,  or  boyish 
faith  forsaken,  was  now  surprised  at  their  intensity. 

'My  dear  Hardress!'  she  said,  laying  her  hand  affectionately  on 
his  shoulder,  'my  darling  child,  you  afflict  yourself  too  honestly. 

218 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

Say  what  you  will,  there  are  few  natures  nursed  in  an  Irish  cabin 
that  are  capable  of  suffering  so  keenly  to  the  endurance  of  any 
disappointment  as  you  do  to  the  inflicting  it.' 

'  Do  you  think  so,  mother  ? ' 

'  Be  assured  of  it.  And  again — why  do  you  vex  your  mind  about 
this  interview  ?  Is  it  not  a  simple  matter  for  a  gentleman  to  apolo- 
gise politely  to  a  lady  for  an  unintentional  affront?  If  you  have 
hurt  your  cousin's  feelings,  what  crime  can  accompany  or  follow 
a  plain  and  gentlemanly  apology  ? ' 

'That's  true,  that's  very  true,'  said  Hardress.  'There  is  a  call 
upon  me,  and  I  will  obey  it.  But  politely  ?  Politely  ?  If  I  could 
stop  at  that.  It  is  impossible;  I  shall  first  become  a  fool,  and  by- 
and-by  a  demon.  But  you  are  right,  and  I  obey  you,  mother.' 

So  saying,  he  walked  with  a  kind  of  desperate  calmness  out  of  the 
room,  and  Mrs.  Cregan  heard  him  continue  the  same  heavy,  self- 
abandoned  step  along  the  hall  which  led  to  the  drawing-room 
door. 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  propitiatory  than  the  air  of 
mournful  tranquillity  with  which  the  young  collegian  entered  the 
room  in  which  his  cousin  was  expecting  him.  It  might  resemble 
that  of  a  believing  Mussulman,  who  prepared  to  encounter  a 
predestined  sorrow.  He  observed,  and  his  pulse  quickened  at 
the  sight,  that  his  cousin's  eyes  were  marked  with  a  slight  circle  of 
red  as  if  she  had  been  weeping.  She  rose  as  he  entered,  and 
lowered  her  head  and  her  person  in  rather  distant  courtesy,  a  cold- 
ness which  she  repented  the  moment  her  eye  rested  on  his  pale  and 
anxious  countenance. 

'You  see  how  totally  all  shame  has  left  me,'  said  Hardress, 
forcing  a  smile;  'I  do  not  even  hide  myself.  Will  any  apology, 
Anne,  be  admissible  after  last  night  ? ' 

Miss  Chute  hesitated  and  appeared  slightly  confused.  She  did 
not,  she  said,  for  her  own  sake  look  for  any.  But  it  would  indeed 
give  her  pleasure  to  hear  anything  that  might  explain  the  extraor- 
dinary scene  on  which  she  had  intruded. 

'You  are  astonished,'  said  Hardress,  'to  find  that  I  could  make 
myself  so  much  a  beast!  But  intoxication  is  not  always  a  voluntary 
sin,  with  people  who  sit  down  after  dinner  with  such  men  as  Creagh, 
and  Connolly,  and—'  he  did  not  add,  'my  father.' 

'  But  when  you  were  aware — ' 

'And  when  I  was,  and  as  I  was,  Anne,  I  rose  and  left  the  table, 

219 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

I  and  young  Geoghegan;  but  they  all  got  up  to  a  man,  and  shut 
out  the  door,  and  swore  we  should  not  stir.  They  went  so  far  as 
to  draw  their  swords.  Upon  my  honour,  I  do  not  think  we  could 
have  left  the  room  last  night,  sober,  without  bloodshed.  And  was 
it  so  unpardonable  then  ?  Cato  himself,  you  know,  was  once  found 
drunk.' 

'Yes,  once.' 

'I  don't  think  that's  deserved,'  said  Hardress,  colouring  slightly; 
'I  may  have  often  trespassed  a  little  in  that  way,  but  I  never,  till  last 
night,  became  as  drunk  as  Cato.  Nor  even  last  night,  for  I  was 
able  to  ride  home  at  a  canter,  to  rescue  my  poor  hunchback  out 
of  a  dilemma,  and  to  bring  him  hither  on  my  saddle,  whereas  Cato 
was  unable  to  keep  his  own  legs,  you  know.' 

'I  heard  that  circumstance  this  morning,  and  I  admit  that  it 
altered  the  posture  of  the  transaction  very  considerably.  But  did 
those  gentlemen  who  drew  their  swords  upon  you  make  you  promise 
to  continue  drinking  after  your  return,  and  to  bring  Danny  into 
the  drawing-room  to  join  you?' 

'And  to  insult  my  cousin?'  added  Hardress.  'No,  there  my 
guilt  begins,  and  unless  your  mercy  steps  in  to  my  relief,  I  must 
bear  the  burthen  unassisted.' 

'To  tell  you  the  truth,  Hardress,'  said  Anne,  assuming  an  air 
of  greater  frankness,  '  it  is  not  the  offense  or  insult  (as  you  term  it) 
of  last  night  alone  that  perplexes  and  afflicts  me.  Your  whole 
manner,  for  a  long  time  past,  is  one  continued  enigma,  one  dis- 
tressing series  of  misconceptions  on  my  part,  and  of  inconsist- 
encies, I  will  say  nothing  harder,  upon  yours.  Your  whole 
conduct  has  changed  since  I  have  met  you  here,  and  changed 
by  no  means  favourably.  I  cannot  understand  you.  I  appear 
to  give  you  pain  most  frequently  when  it  is  farthest  from  my 
own  intention,  and  I  cannot  tell  you  how  distressed  I  feel  upon 
the  subject.' 

Hardress  fixed  his  eyes  upon  her  while  she  spoke,  and  remained 
for  some  moments  wrapt  in  silent  and  intoxicating  admiration. 
When  she  had  concluded,  and  while  a  gentle  anxiety  still  shadowed 
her  features  with  an  additional  depth  of  interest,  he  approached 
to  her  side,  and  said: 

'And  is  it  possible,  Anne,  that  the  conduct  of  so  worthless  a  fel- 
low as  I  am  should  in  any  way  affect  you  so  deeply  as  you  describe  ? 
Believe  me,  Anne,  I  do  not  mouth,  nor  rave,  while  I  declare  to  you 

220 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

that  I  had  rather  lie  down  and  die  here  at  your  feet  than  give  you 
a  moment's  painful  thought,  or  seem  to  disregard  your  feelings.' 

'Oh,  sir,'  said  Anne,  looking  more  offended  than  usual,  'I  cannot 
sit  to  hear  this  language  again  repeated.  You  must  remember 
how  painfully  those  conversations  have  always  terminated.' 

The  intoxication  of  passion  is  no  less  absorbing  and  absolute 
than  that  which  arises  out  of  a  coarser  sensual  indulgence.  Har- 
dress  was  no  more  capable  of  thought  or  reflection  now  than  he  was 
during  the  excesses  of  the  foregoing  night.  He  yielded  himself 
slowly,  but  surely,  to  the  growing  delirium,  and  became  forgetful 
of  everything  but  the  unspeakable  happiness  that  seemed  to  thrust 
itself  upon  him. 

'Anne,'  he  said,  with  great  anxiety  of  voice  and  manner,  'let 
that,  too,  be  made  a  subject  for  your  forgiveness.  Shall  I  tell  you 
a  secret  ?  Shall  I  give  you  the  key  to  all  those  perplexing  incon- 
sistencies, the  solution  to  that  long  enigma  of  which  you  have 
complained?  I  can  no  more  contain  it  than  I  could  arrest  a 
torrent.  I  love  you!  Does  that  explain  it?  If  you  are  satisfied, 
do  not  conceal  your  thought.  Say  it  kindly,  say  it  generously! 
I  do  not  ask  you  to  say  anything  that  can  even  make  you  blush. 
If  you  are  not  displeased,  say  only  that  you  forgive  me,  and  that 
word  will  be  the  token  of  my  happiness.' 

He  paused,  and  Anne  Chute,  turning  away  her  head  and  reach- 
ing him  her  hand,  said  in  a  low,  but  distinct  tone,  'Hardress,  I  am 
satisfied,  I  do  forgive  you.' 

Hardress  sunk  at  her  feet,  and  bathed  with  his  tears  the  hand 
which  had  been  surrendered  to  him. 

'One  moment!  one  moment's  patience,  my  kindest,  my  sweetest 
Anne!'  he  said,  as  a  sudden  thought  started  into  his  mind.  'I  wish 
to  send  one  line  to  my  mother;  is  it  your  pleasure  ?  She  is  in  the 
next  room,  and  I  wish  to — Ha!' 

A  sudden  alteration  took  place  in  his  appearance.  While  he 
spoke  of  writing,  he  had  taken  from  his  waistcoat-pocket  a  pencil 
and  an  open  letter,  from  which  he  tore  away  a  portion  of  the  back. 
The  handwriting  arrested  his  attention,  and  he  looked  within. 
The  first  words  that  met  his  eye  were  the  following: 

'//  Eily  has  done  anything  to  offend  you,  come  and  tell  her  so; 
but  remember  she  is  now  away  from  every  friend  in  the  whole  world. 
Even  if  you  are  still  in  the  same  mind  as  when  you  left  me,  come, 
at  all  events,  for  once,  and  let  me  go  back  to  my  father.' 

221 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

While  his  eyes  wandered  over  this  letter,  his  figure  underwent 
an  altera'cion  that  filled  the  heart  of  Anne  with  terror.  The  appari- 
tion of  the  murdered  Banquo  at  the  festival  could  not  have  shot 
a  fiercer  remorse  into  the  soul  of  his  slayer,  than  did  those  simple 
lines  into  the  heart  of  Hardress.  He  held  the  paper  before  him 
at  arm's  length,  his  cheek  grew  white,  his  forehead  grew  damp,  and 
the  sinews  of  his  limbs  grew  faint  and  quivering  with  fear.  His 
uneasiness  was  increased  by  his  total  ignorance  of  the  manner  in 
which  the  letter  came  into  his  possession. 

'Hardress!  What  is  the  matter?  What  is  it  you  tremble  at?' 
said  Anne,  in  great  uneasiness. 

'I  do  not  know,  Anne.  I  think  there's  witchcraft  here.  I  am 
doomed,  I  think,  to  live  a  charmed  life.  I  never  yet  imagined 
that  I  was  on  the  threshold  of  happiness,  but  some  wild  hurry, 
some  darkening  change,  swept  across  the  prospect,  and  made  it  all 
a  dream.  It  has  been  always  so,  in  my  least  as  in  my  highest 
hopes.  I  think  it  is  my  doom.  Even  now  I  thought  I  had  already 
entered  upon  its  free  enjoyment,  and  behold,  yourself,  how  swiftly 
it  has  vanished!' 

'Vanished!' 

'Aye,  vanished,  and  forever!  Were  we  not  now  almost  one 
soul  and  being?  Did  we  not  mingle  sighs?  Did  we  not  mingle 
tears?  Was  not  your  hand  in  mine,  and  did  I  not  think  I  felt  our 
spirits  growing  together  in  an  inseparable  league?  And  now 
(be  witness  for  me  against  my  destiny)  how  suddenly  we  have  been 
wrenched  asunder!  how  soon  a  gulf  has  opened  at  our  feet  to 
separate  our  hearts  and  fortunes  from  henceforth  and  forever!' 

'Forever!'  echoed  Anne,  lost  in  perplexity  and  astonishment. 

'Forgive  me!'  Hardress  continued  in  a  dreary  tone.  'I  did  but 
mock  you,  Anne;  I  cannot,  must  not  love  you!  I  am  called  away. 
I  was  mad,  and  dreamed  a  lunatic's  dream,  but  a  horrid  voice  has 
woke  me  up  and  warned  me  to  be  gone.  I  never  can  be  the  happy 
one  I  hoped,  Anne  Chute's  accepted  lover.' 

'Yet  once  again,  sir!'  exclaimed  Miss  Chute  with  a  burst  of 
natural  indignation.  'Once  more  must  I  endure  those  insults! 
Do  you  think  I  am  made  of  marble  ?  Do  you  think,'  she  continued, 
panting  heavily,  'that  you  can  sport  with  my  feelings  at  your 
pleasure  ? ' 

'I  can  only  say,  forgive  me!' 

'I  do  not  think  you  value  my  forgiveness.    I  have  been  always 

222 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

too  ready  to  accord  it,  and  that,  I  think,  has  subjected  me  to  addi- 
tional insult.  Oh,  Mrs.  Cregan!'  she  added,  as  she  saw  that  lady 
enter  the  room,  and  close  the  door  carefully  behind  her.  'Oh, 
Mrs.  Cregan,  why  did  you  bring  me  to  this  house?' 

With  these  words  she  ran  as  if  for  refuge  to  the  arms  of  her  aunt 
and  fell  in  a  fit  of  hysterical  weeping  upon  her  neck. 

'What  is  the  matter?'  said  Mrs.  Cregan  sternly,  and  standing 
at  her  full  height. .  'What  have  you  done?' 

'I  have  in  one  breath  made  her  a  proposal,  which  I  have  broken 
in  the  next,'  said  Hardress,  calmly. 

'You  do  well  to  boast  of  it.  Comfort  yourself,  my  love,  you 
shall  have  justice.  Now,  hear  me,  sir.  Abandon  my  house  this 
instant!' 

'Mother—' 

'Be  silent,  sir,  and  dare  not  address  me  by  that  name.  My  love, 
be  comforted!  I  disown,  I  renounce  you  for  a  son  of  mine.  If 
you  had  one  drop  of  gentle  blood  in  your  veins,  it  would  have  re- 
belled against  such  perfidy,  such  inhuman  villainy  as  this!  Away, 
sir,  your  presence  is  distressing  to  us  both!  My  love!  my  love! 
my  unoffending  love,  be  comforted!'  she  added,  gathering  her  niece 
tenderly  in  her  arms,  and  pressing  her  head  against  her  bosom. 

'Mother,'  said  Hardress,  drawing  in  his  breath  between  his 
teeth,  'if  you  are  wise  you  will  not  urge  me  farther.  Your  power 
is  great  upon  me.  If  you  are  merciful,  do  not  put  it  in  exercise 
at  this  moment.' 

'Do  not,  aunt,'  said  Anne  in  a  whisper;  'let  him  do  nothing 
against  his  own  desire.' 

'He  shall  do  it,  girl!'  exclaimed  Mrs.  Cregan.  'Must  the  selfish 
boy  suppose  that  there  are  no  feelings  to  be  consulted  besides  his 
own  in  the  world? — I  will  not  speak  for  myself,'  she  added,  'but 
look  there!'  holding  towards  him  the  form  of  her  niece  as  if  in 
reproach.  'Is  there  a  man  on  earth  besides  yourself  that — ' 
here  the  words  stuck  in  her  throat  and  her  eyes  filled  up.  '  Excuse 
me,  my  darling!'  she  said  to  Anne,  'I  must  sit  down.  This  monster 
will  kill  me!'  She  burst  into  tears  as  she  spoke  those  words. 

It  now  became  Anne's  turn  to  assume  the  office  of  comforter. 
She  stood  by  her  aunt's  chair,  with  her  arm  round  her  neck,  and 
loading  her  with  caresses.  If  ever  a  man  felt  like  a  fiend,  Hardress 
Cregan  did  so  at  that  moment. 

'  I  am  a  villain  either  way, '  he  muttered  below  his  breath.     '  There 

223 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

is  no  escaping  it.  Well  whispered,  fiend!  I  have  but  a  choice 
between  the  two  modes  of  evil,  and  there  is  no  resisting  this!  I 
cannot  hold  out  against  this.' 

'Come,  Anne,'  said  Mrs.  Cregan,  rising,  'let  us  look  for  privacy 
elsewhere,  since  this  gentleman  loves  so  well  to  feast  his  eyes  upon 
the  misery  he  can  occasion  that  he  will  not  afford  it  to  us  here.' 

'Stay,  mother!'  said  Hardress  suddenly  rising  and  walking 
towards  them,  'I  have  decided  between  them.' 

'  Between  what  ? ' 

'I — I  mean,  that  I  am  ready  to  obey  you.  I  am  ready,  if  Anne 
will  forgive  me,  to  fulfill  my  pledge.  I  ask  her  pardon  and  yours 
for  the  distress  I  have  occasioned.  From  this  moment  I  will  offend 
no  more.  Your  power,  mother,  has  prevailed.  Whether  for  good 
or  evil  let  Time  tell!' 

'But  will  you  hold  to  this?' 

'To  death  and  after.    Surely  that  may  answer.' 

'  No  more  discoveries  ? ' 

'None,  mother,  none.' 

'  This,  once  for  all,  and  at  every  hazard  ? ' 

'At  every  hazard,  and  at  every  expense  to  soul  or  to  body,  here 
or  hereafter.' 

'Fie!  fie!  Why  need  you  use  those  desperate  terms?  Where 
are  you  running  now? 

'Merely  to  speak  to  my  servant.    I  will  return  to  dinner.' 

'Why,  how  you  tremble!    You  are  pale  and  ill!' 

'No,  no,  'tis  nothing.  The  air  will  take  it  away.  Good-bye, 
one  moment;  I  will  return  to  dinner.' 

He  hurried  out  of  the  room,  leaving  the  ladies  to  speculate  to- 
gether on  the  probable  cause  of  his  vacillation.  What  appeared 
most  perplexing  to  Anne  Chute  was  the  circumstance  that  she 
knew  he  loved  her  as  deeply  and  intensely  as  he  said,  and  yet  her 
admitting  his  addresses  always  seemed  to  occasion  a  feeling  of 
terror  in  his  mind.  More  than  once  as  his  character  unfolded 
itself  on  her  view,  she  had  been  tempted  to  regret  her  hasty  pre- 
dilection, and  had  recurred  with  a  feeling  of  saddened  recollection 
to  the  quiet  tenderness  and  cheerful  affection  of  the  rejected  Kyrle 
Daly. 

In  the  meantime  Hardress  Cregan  hurried  through  the  house 
in  search  of  his  boatman.  Danny's  wounds  had  become  inflamed 
in  the  course  of  the  night,  and  he  was  now  lying  in  a  feverish  state 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

in  the  little  green-room  in  which  Hardress  had  held  his  last  inter- 
view with  the  poor  huntsman.  Hither  he  hastened  with  a  greater 
turbulence  of  mind  than  he  had  ever  yet  experienced. 

'They  are  driving  me  upon  it!'  he  muttered  between  his  teeth. 
'They  are  gathering  upon  me,  and  urging  me  onward  in  my  own 
despite!  Why  then,  have  at  ye,  devils!  I  am  among  ye.  Which 
way  must  it  be  done  ?  Heaven  grant  I  may  not  one  day  weep  for 
this! — but  I  am  scourged  to  it!' 

He  entered  the  room.  The  check  blind  was  drawn  across  the 
little  window,  and  he  could  scarcely,  for  a  moment,  distinguish 
the  face  of  his  servant  as  the  latter  raised  himself  in  the  bed  at  his 
approach.  Old  Nancy  was  standing  with  a  bowl  of  whey  in  her 
hand  near  the  bedside.  Hardress,  as  if  unwilling  to  afford  a  mo- 
ment's time  for  reflection,  walked  quickly  to  her,  seized  her  by  the 
shoulders,  and  thrust  her  out  of  the  room.  He  then  threw  in 
the  bolt  of  the  door,  and  took  a  chair  by  the  sick  man's  side.  A 
silence  of  some  moments  ensued. 

'Long  life  to  you,  Master  Hardress,  'tis  kind  o'  you  to  come  and 
see  me  dis  mornin','  said  the  wounded  lord. 

His  master  made  no  reply,  but  remained  for  a  minute  with  his 
elbows  on  his  knees,  his  face  buried  between  his  hands. 

'Danny,'  he  said  at  length,  'do  you  remember  a  conversa- 
tion which  I  had  with  you  some  weeks  since  on  the  Purple 
Mountain?' 

'  O  den,  master,'  said  Danny,  putting  his  hands  together  with  a 
beseeching  look,  'don't  talk  o'  dat  any  more.  I  ax  heaven's 
pardon,  an'  I  ax  your  pardon,  for  what  I  said;  and  I  hope  and 
pray  your  honour  'ill  tink  of  it  no  more.  Many  is  de  time  I  was 
sorry  for  it  since,  and  moreover,  now  being  on  my  sick  bed,  a 
linking  o'  everyting.' 

'Pooh,  pooh!  you  do  not  understand  me!  Do  you  remember 
your  saying  something  about  hiring  a  passage  for  Eily  in  a  North 
American  vessel,  and — ' 

'I  do,  an'  I  ask  pardon.  Let  me  out  o'  de  bed,  an'  I'll  go  down 
on  my  two  knees — ' 

'Pish!  bah!  be  silent.  When  you  spoke  of  that  I  was  not  wise 
enough  to  judge  correctly.  Do  you  mark?  If  that  conversation 
were  to  pass  again  I  would  not  speak,  nor  think,  nor  feel  as  I  did 
then.' 

Danny  gaped  and  stared  on  him  as  if  at  a  loss. 

225 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'Look  here!  you  asked  me  for  a  token  of  my  approbation.  Do 
you  remember  it?  You  bade  me  draw  my  glove  from  off  my 
hand,  and  give  it  for  a  warrant.  Danny,'  he  continued,  plucking 
off  the  glove  slowly,  finger  after  finger,  'my  mind  has  altered.  I 
married  too  young.  I  didn't  know  my  own  mind.  Your  words 
were  wiser  than  I  thought.  I  am  hampered  in  my  will.  I  am 
burning  with  this  thraldom.  Here  is  my  glove.' 

Danny  received  it,  while  they  exchanged  a  look  of  cold  and  fatal 
intelligence. 

'You  shall  have  money,'  Hardress  continued,  throwing  a  purse 
upon  the  bed.  'My  wish  is  this.  She  must  not  live  in  Ireland. 
Take  her  to  her  father!  No,  the  old  man  would  babble,  and  all 
would  come  to  light.  Three  thousand  miles  of  a  roaring  ocean 
may  be  a  better  security  for  silence.  She  could  not  keep  her 
secret  at  her  father's.  She  would  murmur  it  in  her  dreams.  I 
have  heard  her  do  it.  She  must  not  stay  in  Ireland.  And  you, 
do  you  go  with  her,  watch  her,  mark  all  her  words,  her  wishes;  I 
will  find  you  money  enough,  and  never  let  me  see  her  more.  Harm 
not,  I  say — oh,  harm  not  a  hair  of  the  poor  wretch's  head! — but 
never  let  me  see  her  more!  Do  you  hear?  Do  you  agree?' 

'  O  den,  I'd  do  more  dan  dat  for  your  honour,  but — ' 

'Enough.    When?  when,  then?  when?' 

'Ah  den,  Master  Hardress,  dear  knows,  I'm  so  poorly  after  de 
proddin'  I  got  from  dem  jettlemen,  dat  I  don't  know  will  I  be  able 
to  lave  dis  for  a  few  days,  I'm  tinken'.' 

'Well,  when  you  go,  here  is  your  warrant.' 

He  tore  the  back  from  Eily's  letter  and  wrote  in  answer: 

'I  am  still  in  the  same  mind  as  when  I  left  you.  I  accept  your 
proposal.  Put  yourself  under  the  bearer's  care  and  he  will  restore 
you  to  your  father.' 

He  placed  this  black  lie  in  the  hand  of  his  retainer,  and  hurried 
out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

HOW  THE  LITTLE    LORD   PUT   HIS   MASTER'S   WISHES   INTO   ACTION 


w 


>E  lost  sight  of  Eily  after  her  parting  with  her  uncle.     She 
wasted  no  time  on  her  journey  homewards,  but  yet  it  was 

226 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

nearly  dusk  before  the  pony  had  turned  in  upon  the  little  craggy 
road  which  led  upward  through  the  Gap.  The  evening  was  calm 
and  frosty,  and  every  footfall  of  the  animal  was  echoed  from  the 
opposite  cliffs  like  the  stroke  of  a  hammer.  A  broken  covering 
of  crystal  was  thrown  across  the  stream  that  bubbled  downwards 
through  the  wild  valley,  and  the  rocks  and  leafless  trees,  hi  those 
corners  of  the  Glen  which  had  escaped  the  direct  influence  of  the 
sunshine,  were  covered  with  drooping  spars  of  ice.  Chilled  by 
the  nipping  air,  and  fearful  of  attracting  the  attention  of  any  oc- 
casional straggler  in  the  wild,  Eily  had  drawn  her  blue  cloak  around 
her  face,  and  was  proceeding  quietly  in  the  direction  of  the  cottage, 
when  the  sound  of  voices  on  the  other  side  of  a  hedge  by  which 
she  passed  struck  on  her  ear. 

'Seven  pound  tin,  an'  a  pint  o'  whiskey!  the  same  money  as  I 
had  for  the  dead  match  of  her  from  Father  O'Connor  the  priest, 
eastwards,  in  Castle  Island.  Say  the  word  now,  seven  pound  tin, 
or  lave  it  there.' 

'Seven  pound.' 

'No,  seven  pound  tin.' 

'I  will  not,  I  tell  you.' 

'Well  then,  being  relations  as  we  are,  I  never  will  break  your 
word,  although  she's  worth  that  if  it  was  between  brothers.' 

In  her  first  start  of  surprise  at  hearing  this  well-remembered 
voice,  Eily  had  dropped  the  mantle  from  her  face.  Before  she 
could  resume  it,  the  last  speaker  had  sprung  up  on  the  hedge  and 
plainly  encountered  her. 

At  this  moment,  far  away  from  home,  forsaken,  as  it  appeared, 
by  her  chosen,  her  own  accepted  love,  living  all  alone  in  heart,  and 
without  even  the  feverish  happiness  of  hope  itself — at  this  mournful 
moment  it  would  be  difficult  to  convey  any  idea  of  the  effect  which 
was  produced  upon  Eily  by  the  sudden  apparition  of  the  first,  though 
not  the  favoured,  love  of  her  girlish  days.  Both  came  simultane- 
ously to  a  pause,  and  both  remained  looking  each  on  the  other's 
face  with  a  feeling  too  sudden  and  too  full  for  immediate  expression. 
The  handsome,  though  no  longer  healthy,  countenance  of  the 
mountaineer  was  expanded  to  a  stare  of  pleasurable  astonishment, 
while  that  of  Eily  was  covered  with  an  appearance  of  shame,  sorrow, 
and  perplexity.  The  pony,  likewise,  drooping  his  head  as  she 
suffered  the  rein  to  slacken  in  her  hand,  seemed  to  participate  in 
her  confusion. 

227 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

At  length  Myles  of  the  ponies,  keeping  his  eyes  still  fixed  on  Eily, 
advanced  towards  her  step  after  step  with  the  breathless  suspense 
of  King  Leontes  before  the  feigned  statue. 

'Eily!'  he  said  at  length,  laying  one  hand  upon  the  shaggy  neck 
of  the  little  animal,  and  placing  the  other  against  his  throat  to 
keep  down  the  passion  which  he  felt  gathering  within.  'Oh, 
Eily  O'Connor,  is  it  you  I  see  at  last?' 

Eily,  with  her  eyes  lowered,  replied  in  a  whisper  which  was  all 
but  utterly  inaudible,  "Tis  Myles.' 

A  long  pause  ensued.  The  poor  mountaineer  bent  down  his 
head  in  a  degree  of  emotion  which  it  would  be  difficult  to  describe 
otherwise  than  by  adverting  to  the  causes  in  which  it  originated. 
He  was  Eily's  first  declared  admirer,  and  he  was  the  cause  of  her 
present  exile  from  her  father's  fireside.  He  had  the  roughness, 
but  at  the  same  time  the  honesty,  of  a  mountain  cottager,  and  he 
possessed  a  nature  which  was  capable  of  being  deeply,  if  not  acutely, 
impressed  by  the  circumstances  just  mentioned.  It  was  long, 
therefore,  before  he  could  renew  the  conversation.  At  last  he 
looked  up  and  said: 

'Why,  then,  I  felt  you  when  you  were  below  that  lake,  when  I 
seen  you,  that  it  was  somebody  was  there,  greatly,  although  I 
couldn't  see  a  bit  o'  you  but  the  cloak.  I  wondhered  what  it  was 
made  me  feel  so  quare  in  myself.  Sure  it's  little  notion  I  had  who 
was  in  it,  for  a  cloak.  Little  I  thought '  *(here  he  passed  his  hand 
across  his  eyes) — '  Ah  what's  the  use  o'  talking  ? ' 

Eily  was  still  unable  to  articulate  a  syllable. 

'I  saw  the  old  man  last  week,'  continued  Myles,  'still  at  the  old 
work  on  the  rope-walk.' 

'Did  you — speak  to  him?'  whispered  Eily. 

'No.  He  gave  me  great  anger  (and  justly)  the  next  time  he 
saw  me  afther  you  going,  in  regard  it  was  on  my  account,  he  said 
(and  justly  too),  that  you  were  driven  to  do  as  you  done.  Oh, 
then,  Miss  Eily,  why  did  you  do  that?  Why  didn't  you  come  to 
me,  unknownst  to  the  old  man,  and  says  you,  "Myles,  I  make  it 
my  request  o'  you,  you  won't  ax  me  any  more,  for  I  can't  have  you 
at  all?"  And  sure,  if  my  heart  was  to  split  open  that  minute, 
it's  the  last  word  you'd  ever  hear  from  Myles.' 

'There's  only  one  person  to  blame  in  all  this  business,'  murmured 
the  unhappy  girl,  'and  that  is  Eily  O'Connor.' 

'I  don't  say  that,'  returned  the  mountaineer.    'It's  no  admira- 

228 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

t 

tion  to  me  you  should  be  heartbroken  with  all  the  persecution  we 
gave  you  day  after  day.  All  I'm  thinking  is,  I'm  so  sorry  you 
didn't  mention  it  to  myself,  unknownst.  Sure  it  would  be  better 
for  me  than  to  be  as  I  was  afther  when  I  heerd  you  wor  gone. 
Lowry  Looby  that  told  me  first  of  it  when  I  was  eastwards.  Oh, 
vo!  such  a  life  as  I  led  afther!  Lonesome  as  these  mountains 
looked  before,  when  I  used  to  come  home  thinken'  of  you,  they 
looked  ten  times  lonesomer  afther  I  heard  that  story.  The 
ponies — poor  craturs,  see'  em  all,  how  they're  looken'  down  at  us 
this  moment — they  didn't  hear  me  spring  the  rattle  on  the  moun- 
tain for  a  month  afther.  I  suppose  they  thought  it  was  in  Garry- 
owen  I  was.' 

Here  he  looked  upward  and  pointed  to  his  herd,  a  great  number 
of  which  were  collected  in  groups  on  the  broken  cliff  above  the  • 
road,  some  standing  so  far  forward  on  the  projections  of  rock  as 
to  appear  magnified  against  the  dusky  sky.  Myles  sprung  the 
large  wooden  rattle  which  he  held  in  his  hand,  and  in  an  instant  all 
dispersed  and  disappeared  like  the  clan  of  the  Highland  chief  at 
the  sound  of  their  leader's  whistle. 

'Well,  Myles,'  said  Eily,  at  length,  collecting  a  little  strength,  'I 
hope  we'll  see  some  happy  days  in  Garryowen  yet.' 

'Heaven  send  it.  I'll  pack  off  a  boy  to-night  to  town,  or  I'll  go 
myself  if  you  like,  or  I'll  get  you  a  horse  and  truckle,  and  guide  it 
myself  for  you,  or  I'll  do  anything  in  the  whole  world  that  you'll 
have  me.  Look  at  this.  I'd  rather  be  doing  your  bidding  this 
moment  than  my  own  mother's,  and  heaven  forgive  me  if  that's  a 
sin.  Ah,  Eily,  they  may  say  this  and  that  o'  you  in  the  place  where 
you  were  born,  but  I'll  ever  hold  to  it — I  held  to  it  all  through, 
an'  I'll  hold  to  it  to  my  death — that  when  you  darken  your  father's 
door  again,  you  will  send  no  shame  before  you!' 

'You  are  right  in  that,  Myles.' 

'  Didn  't  I  know  I  was  ?  And  wasn't  it  that  that  broke  my  heart  ? 
Look!  If  one  met  me  afther  you  flitted  away,  and  saw  me  walking 
the  road  with  my  hands  in  my  pocket,  and  my  head  down,  an'  I 
thinking;  an'  if  he  sthruck  me  upon  the  shoulder  an'  "Miles," 
says  he,  "don't  grieve  for  her,  she's  this  and  that! "  An'  if  he  proved 
it  to  me,  why,  I'd  look  up  that  minute  an'  I'd  smile  in  his  face.  I'd 
be  as  easy  from  that  hour  as  if  I  never  crossed  your  threshold  at 
Garryowen!  But  knowing  in  my  heart,  and  as  my  heart  told  me, 
that  it  never  could  be  that  way,  that  Eily  was  still  the  old  girl  always, 

229 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

an'  hearing  what  they  said  o'  you,  an'  knowing  that  it  was  I  that 
brought  it  all  upon  you, — oh,  Eily!  Eily! — Oh,  Eily  O'Connor, 
there  is  not  that  man  upon  Ireland  ground  that  can  tell  what  I  felt. 
That  was  what  killed  me!  That  was  what  drove  the  pain  into  my 
heart,  and  kept  me  in  the  docthor's  hands  till  now.' 

'Were  you  ill,  then,  Myles?'  Eily  asked  in  a  tone  of  greater 
tenderness  and  interest  than  she  had  ever  shown  to  this  faithful 
lover.  He  seemed  to  feel  it,  too,  for  he  turned  away  his  head,  and 
did  not  answer  for  some  moments. 

'Nothing  to  speak  of,'  he  said,  at  length;  'nothing,  Eily,  that 
couldn't  be  cured  by  a  kind  word  or  a  look  o'  that  kind.  But  where 
are  you  going  now?  The  night  is  falling,  and  this  is  a  lonesome 
road.  The  Sowlth  *  was  seen  upon  the  Black  Lake  last  week,  and 
few  are  fond  of  crossing  the  little  bridge  at  dark  since  then.' 

'I  am  not  afraid,'  said  Eily. 

'Are  you  going  far  a-past  the  Gap?  Let  me  guide  the  pony  for 
you.' 

'No,  Myles,  where  I  am  going,  I  must  go  alone.' 

'Alone?    Sure  'tisn't  to  part  me  you  will,  now?' 

'I  must  indeed,  Myles.' 

'And  what  will  I  say  to  the  old  man,  when  I  go  and  tell  him 
that  I  saw  Eily,  an'  spoke  to  her,  an'  that  I  know  no  more  ? ' 

'Tell  him,  if  you  like,  that  Eily  is  sorry  for  the  trouble  she  gave 
him,  and  that  before  many  days  she  hopes  to  ask  his  pardon  on 
her  knees.  Good  night,  and  heaven  be  with  you,  Myles!  you  are 
a  good  man.' 

'An'  am'n't  I  to  know  where  you  stop  itself?' 

'Not  now.  You  said,  Myles,  that  you  would  like  to  do  my 
bidding.  My  bidding  is  now  that  you  would  neither  ask  nor  look 
after  where  I'm  going,  nor  where  I  stop.  If  you  do  either  one  or 
the  other,  you  will  do  me  a  great  injury.' 

'Say  no  more,  a-chree!'  said  Myles,  'the  word  is  enough.  Well, 
Eily,  good  night!  your  own  good  night  back  again  to  you,  and  may 
the  angels  guide  you  on  your  road.  Cover  up  your  hands  in  your 
cloak,  an'  hide  your  face  from  the  frost.  I  do  your  bidding,  but 
I  don't  like  the  look  o'  you  that  way,  going  up  this  lonesome  glen 
alone,  and  a  winter  night  coming  on,  an'  not  knowing  where  you're 
steering,  or  who  you're  trusting  to.  Eily,  be  said  by  me  and  let  me 
go  with  you.' 

*  A  gloomy  spirit. 
230 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

Eily  again  refused,  and  gave  her  hand  to  Myles,  who  pressed 
it  between  his,  and  seemed  as  loth  to  part  with  it  as  if  it  were  a 
treasure  of  gold.  At  length,  however,  Eily  disengaged  herself,  and 
put  her  pony  to  a  trot.  The  mountaineer  remained  gazing  after 
her  until  her  figure  was  lost  among  the  shadows  of  the  rocks.  He 
then  turned  on  his  path,  and  pursued  the  road  which  led  down 
the  valley,  with  his  eyes  fixed  heavily  upon  the  ground,  and  his  head 
sunk  forward  in  an  access  of  deep  and  singular  emotion. 

Eily,  meanwhile,  pursued  her  journey  to  the  cottage,  where, 
as  the  reader  is  already  aware,  no  news  of  her  forgetful  husband 
had  as  yet  been  heard.  Some  days  of  painful  suspense  and  solitude 
elapsed,  and  then  came  Danny  Mann  with  his  young  master's  note. 
It  was  the  eve  of  Little  Christmas,  and  Eily  was  seated  by  the 
fire,  still  listening  with  the  anxiety  of  defeated  hope  to  every  sound 
that  approached  the  cottage-door.  She  held  in  her  hand  a  small 
prayer-book,  in  which  she  was  reading,  from  time  to  time,  the  office 
of  the  day.  The  sins  and  negligences  of  the  gourted  maiden  and 
the  happy  bride  came  now  in  dread  array  before  the  memory  of  the 
forsaken  wife,  and  she  leaned  forward  with  her  cheek  supported 
by  one  finger,  to  contemplate  the  long  arrear  in  silent  penitence. 
They  were  for  the  most  part  such  transgressions  as  might,  in  a  more 
worldly  soul,  be  considered  indicative  of  innocence  rather  than 
hopeless  guilt,  but  Eily's  was  a  young  and  tender  conscience  that 
bore  the  burthen  with  reluctance  and  with  difficulty. 

Poll  Naughten  was  arranging  at  a  small  table  the  three-branched 
candle  with  which  the  vigil  of  this  festival  is  celebrated  in  Catholic 
houses.  While  she  was  so  occupied  a  shadow  fell  upon  the  thresh- 
old, and  Eily  started  from  her  chair.  It  was  that  of  Danny  Mann. 
She  looked  for  a  second  figure,  but  it  did  not  appear,  and  she  re- 
turned to  her  chair  with  a  look  of  agony  and  disappointment. 

'Where's  your  masther?  Isn't  he  coming?'  asked  Poll,  while 
she  applied  a  lighted  rush  to  one  of  the  branches  of  the  candle. 

'He  isn't,'  returned  Danny,  in  a  surly  tone:  'he  has  something 
else  to  do.' 

He  approached  Eily,  who  observed  as  he  nanded  her  the  note, 
that  he  looked  more  pale  than  usual,  and  that  his  eye  quivered 
with  an  uncertain  and  gloomy  fire.  She  cast  her  eyes  on  the  note 
in  the  hope  of  finding  there  a  refuge  from  the  fears  which  crowded 
in  upon  her.  But  it  came  only  to  confirm  them  in  all  their  gloomy 
force.  She  read  it  word  after  word,  and  then  letting  her  hand  fall 

231 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

lifeless  by  her  side,  she  leaned  back  against  the  wall  in  an  attitude 
of  utter  desolation.  Danny  avoided  contemplating  her  in  this 
condition,  and  stooped  forward  with  his  hands  expanded  over  the 
fire.  The  whole  took  place  in  silence  so  complete  that  Poll  was 
not  yet  aware  of  the  transaction,  and  had  not  even  looked  on  Eily. 
Again  she  raised  the  paper  to  her  eyes,  and  again  she  read  in  the 
same  well-known  hand,  to  which  her  pulses  had  so  often  thrilled 
and  quickened,  the  same  unkind,  cold,  heartless,  loveless,  words. 
She  thought  of  the  first  time  on  which  she  had  met  with  Hardress; 
she  remembered  the  warmth,  the  tenderness,  the  respectful  zeal 
of  his  young  and  early  attachment,  she  recalled  his  favourite  phrases 
of  affection,  and  again  she  looked  upon  this  unfeeling  scrawl,  and 
the  contrast  almost  broke  her  heart.  She  thought  that  if  he  were 
determined  to  renounce  her  he  might  at  least  have  come  and  spoken 
a  word  at  parting,  even  if  he  had  used  the  same  violence  as  in  their 
last  interview.  His  utmost  harshness  would  be  kinder  than  indif- 
ference like  this.  It  was  an  irremediable  affliction,  one  of  those 
frightful  visitations  from  the  effects  of  which  a  feeble  and  unelastic 
character  like  that  of  this  unhappy  girl  can  never  after  be  recovered. 

But  though  the  character  of  Eily  was,  as  we  have  termed  it,  un- 
elastic; though,  when  once  bowed  down  by  a  calamitous  pressure, 
her  spirits  could  not  recoil,  but  took  the  drooping  form,  and  retained 
it,  even  after  that  pressure  was  removed,  still  she  possessed  a 
heroism  peculiar  to  herself,  the  noblest  heroism  of  which  humanity 
is  capable — the  heroism  of  endurance.  The  time  had  now  arrived 
for  the  exercise  of  that  faculty  of  silent  sufferance  of  which  she  had 
made  her  gentle  boast  to  Hardress.  She  saw  now  that  complaint 
would  be  in  vain,  that  Hardress  loved  her  not,  that  she  was  dead 
in  his  affections,  and  that,  although  she  might  disturb  the  quiet  of 
her  husband,  she  never  could  restore  her  own.  She  determined, 
therefore,  to  obey  him  at  once,  and  without  a  murmur.  She  thought 
that  Hardress's  unkindness  had  its  origin  in  a  dislike  to  her,  and  did 
not  at  all  imagine  the  possibility  of  his  proceeding  to  such  a  degree  of 
perfidy  as  he,  in  point  of  fact,  contemplated.  Had  she  done  so, 
she  would  not  have  agreed  to  maintain  the  secrecy  which  she  had 
promised. 

While  this  train  of  meditation  was  still  passing  in  her  mind, 
Danny  Mann  advanced  towards  the  place  where  she  was  standing, 
and  said,  without  raising  his  eyes  from  her  feet: 

'If  you're  agreeable  to  do  what's  in  dat  paper,  Miss  Eily,  I 

232 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

have  a  boy  below  at  de  Gap  wit'  a  horse  an'  car,  an'  you  can  set  off 
to-night  if  you  like.' 

Eily,  as  if  yielding  to  a  mechanical  impulse,  glided  into  the  little 
room,  which  during  the  honeymoon  had  been  furnished  up  and 
decorated  for  her  own  use.  She  restrained  her  eyes  from  wandering 
as  much  as  possible,  and  commenced  with  hurried  and  trembling 
hands  her  arrangements  for  departure.  They  were  few,  and 
speedily  effected.  Her  apparel  was  folded  into  her  trunk,  and, 
for  once,  she  tied  on  her  bonnet  and  cloak  without  referring  to  the 
glass.  It  was  all  over  now ! — it  was  a  happy  dream,  but  it  was  ended. 
Not  a  tear  fell,  not  a  sigh  escaped  her  lips  during  the  course  of 
those  farewell  occupations.  The  struggle  within  her  breast  was 
deep  and  terrible,  but  it  was  firmly  mastered. 

A  few  minutes  only  elapsed  before  she  again  appeared  at  the  door 
of  the  little  chamber,  accoutred  for  the  journey. 

'Danny,'  she  said,  in  a  faint,  small  voice,  'I  am  ready.' 

'Ready!'  exclaimed  Poll.     'Is  it  going  you  are,  a-chree?' 

Nothing  could  be  more  dangerous  to  Eily's  firmness  at  this 
moment  than  any  sound  of  commiseration  or  of  kindness.  She 
felt  the  difficulty  at  once,  and  hurried  to  escape  the  chance  of  this 
additional  trial. 

'Poll,'  she  replied,  still  in  the  same  faint  tone,  'good-bye  to  you! 
I  am  sorry  I  have  only  thanks  to  give  at  parting,  but  I  will  not  forget 
you  when  it  is  in  my  power.  I  left  my  things  within.  I  will  send 
for  them  some  other  time.' 

'  And  where  is  it  you're  going  ?    Danny,  what's  all  this  about  ? ' 

'What  business  is  it  of  yours?'  replied  her  brother,  in  a 
peevish  tone,  'or  of  mine  eider?  It  is  de  master's  bidding, 
an'  you  can  ax  him  why  he  done  it  when  he  comes,  if  you 
want  to  know.' 

' But  the  night  will  rain.  It  will  be  a  bad  night,' said  Poll.  'I 
seen  the  clouds  gatherin'  for  tundher,  an'  I  comen'  down  the 
mountain.' 

Eily  smiled  faintly  and  shook  her  head,  as  if  to  intimate  that 
the  changes  of  the  seasons  would  henceforth  be  to  her  a  matter  of 
trivial  interest. 

'If  it  be  the  masther's  bidding  it  must  be  right,  no  doubt/  said 
Poll,  still  looking  in  wonder  and  perplexity  on  Eily's  dreary  and 
dejected  face,  '  but  it  is  a  quare  story,  that's  what  it  is.  Won't  you 
ate  anything?' 

233 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'Oh,  not  a  morsel!'  said  Eily,  with  a  look  of  sudden  and  intense 
disgust;'  'but  perhaps  Danny  may.' 

'No,  but  I'll  drink  a  drop,  if  you  have  it,'  returned  the  lord,  in  a 
tone  which  showed  that  he  doubted  much  the  likelihood  of  any 
refreshment  of  that  kind  remaining  long  inactive  in  the  possession 
of  his  sister.  To  his  delight  and  disappointment,  however,  Poll 
handed  him  a  bottle  from  the  neighbouring  dresser  which  contained 
a  considerable  quantity  of  spirits.  He  drank  off  the  whole  at  a 
draught,  and  we  cannot  more  clearly  show  the  strong  interest 
which  Poll  Naughten  felt  in  the  situation  of  Eily  than  by  men- 
tioning that  she  left  this  circumstance  unnoticed. 

Without  venturing  to  reiterate  her  farewell,  Eily  descended,  with 
a  hasty  but  feeble  step,  the  broken  path  which  led  to  the  Gap-road, 
and  was  quickly  followed  by  the  little  lord.  Committing  herself 
to  his  guidance,  she  soon  lost  sight  of  the  mountain  cottage,  which 
she  had  sought  in  hope  and  joy, — and  which  she  now  abandoned  in 
despair. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

HOW  HARDRESS  LOST  AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE 

EILY  had  not  been  many  minutes  absent  from  the  cottage 
when  the  thunderstorm,  predicted  by  Fighting  Poll,  com- 
menced amid  all  the  circumstances  of  adventitious  grandeur  by 
which  those  elemental  convulsions  are  accompanied  among  the 
Kerry  mountains.  The  rain  came  down  in  torrents,  and  the 
thunder  clattered  among  the  crags  and  precipices  with  a  thousand 
short  reverberations.  Phil  Naughten,  who  had  entered  soon  after 
the  storm  began,  was  seated  with  his  wife  at  their  small  supper- 
table,  the  latter  complaining  heavily  of  the  assault  made  by  Danny 
on  her  spirit-flask,  which  she  now,  for  the  first  time,  discovered 
to  be  empty. 

Suddenly  the  latch  of  the  door  was  raised,  and  Hardress  Cregan 
entered,  with  confusion  and  terror  in  his  appearance.  The  dark 
frieze  great-coat  in  which  his  figure  was  enveloped  seemed  to  be 
drenched  in  rain,  and  his  face  was  flushed  and  glistening  with 
the  beating  of  the  weather.  He  closed  the  door  with  difficulty 

234 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

against  the  strong  wind,  and  still  keeping  his  left  hand  on  the 
latch,  he  said: 

'I  am  afraid  I  have  come  too  late.    Is  Danny  here?' 

'No,  sir,'  said  Phil,  'he's  gone  these  two  hours.' 

'And  Eily?' 

'And  Eily  along  with  him.  He  gave  her  papers  that  made 
her  go.' 

Hardress  heard  this  with  an  appearance  of  satisfaction.  He 
leaned  his  back  against  the  door,  crossed  his  feet  and  fixed  his 
eyes  upon  the  ground;  while  a  silent  soliloquy  passed  within  his 
mind,  of  which  the  following  is  a  transcript: 

'It  is  done,  then.  I  would  have  saved  her,  but  it  is  too  late. 
Now,  my  good  angel,  be  at  peace  with  me.  I  would  have  saved 
her.  I  obeyed  your  call.  Amid  the  storm,  the  darkness,  and  the 
rain,  I  flew  to  execute  your  gentle  will.  But  the  devil  had  taken  me 
at  my  word  already,  and  found  me  a  rapid  minister.  Would  I  had 
saved  her!  Ha!  What  whisper's  that ?  There  can  come  nothing 
worse  of  it  than  I  have  ordered.  Forsaken!  Banished!  That  is 
the  very  worst  that  can  befall  her.  And  for  the  consequences,  why, 
if  she  be  so  weak  and  silly  a  thing  to  pine  and  die  of  the  slight,  let 
nature  take  the  blame,  not  me.  I  never  meant  it.  But  if  that 
madman  should  exceed  my  orders.  And  if  he  should,'  Hardress 
suddenly  exclaimed  aloud,  while  he  started  from  the  door  and 
trembled  with  fury — 'and  if  he  should,'  he  repeated,  extending 
his  arms,  and  spreading  his  fingers  as  if  in  act  to  gripe,  'wherever 
I  meet  him,  in  the  city,  or  in  the  desert,  in  the  lowest  depth  of  this 
accursed  valley,  or  on  the  summit  of  the  mountain  where  he  tempted 
me,  I  will  tear  his  flesh  from  off  his  bones,  and  gibbet  him  between 
these  fingers  for  a  miscreant  and  a  ruffian ! ' 

He  sunk,  exhausted  by  this  frantic  burst  of  passion,  into  a  chair, 
the  chair  which  Eily  had  occupied  on  that  evening.  Phil  Naughten 
and  his  wife  left  their  seats  in  astonishment,  and  gazed  on  him  and 
on  one  another  in  silence.  In  a  few  minutes  Hardress  rose  moire 
calmly  from  the  chair,  and  drew  his  sleeves  out  of  the  great-coat, 
which  he  handed  to  Poll;  signifying  by  a  motion  of  his  hand,  that 
she  should  hang  it  near  the  fire.  While  she  obeyed  his  wishes,  he 
resumed  his  seat  in  silence.  For  a  considerable  time  he  remained 
leaning  over  the  back  of  the  chair,  and  gazing  fixedly  upon  the 
burning  embers.  The  fatigue  of  his  long  journey  on  foot,  and  the 
exhaustion  of  his  feelings  at  length  brought  on  a  heavy  slumber, 

235 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

and  his  head  sunk  upon  his  breast  in  deep,  though  not  untroubled 
rest. 

Poll  and  her  husband  resumed  their  meal,  and  afterwards  pro- 
ceeded to  their  customary  evening  occupations.  Phil  began  to 
repair  the  pony's  stradle,  while  Poll  twisted  the  flaxen  cords, 
according  as  her  husband  required  them. 

'I'll  tell  you  what,  Phil,'  said  his  wife,  in  a  low  whisper,  'there's 
something  going  on  to-night  that  is  not  right.  I'm  sorry  I  let 
Eily  go.' 

'Whisht,  you  foolish  woman!'  returned  her  husband,  'what 
would  be  going  on  ?  Mind  your  work,  an'  don't  wake  the  master. 
D'ye  hear  how  he  moans  in  his  sleep  ? ' 

'I  do;  an'  I  think  that  moan  isn't  for  nothing.  Who  is  it  he 
was  talking  of  tearing  awhile  ago  ? ' 

'I  don't  know:  there's  no  use  in  thinking  about  it  at  all.  This 
is  a  cold  night  with  poor  McDonough  in  his  grave,  the  first  he  ever 
spent  there.' 

'And  so  it  is.     Were  there  many  at  the  funeral  ? ' 

'A  power.  The  whole  counthry  was  afther  the  hearse.  You 
never  heard  such  a  cry  in  your  life  as  was  set  up  in  the  churchyard 
by  poor  Garret  O'Neil,  his  own  natural,  after  the  grave  was  covered 
in.  The  whole  place  was  in  tears!' 

'Sure  Garret  wasn't  with  him  this  many  year?' 

'He  was  not,  until  the  very  day  before  he  died,  when  he  seen  him 
in  his  own  room.  You  remember  a  long  wattle  that  Garret  used 
always  be  carrying  in  his  hand?' 

'I  do  well.' 

'That  was  given  him  be  the  master,  McDonough,  himself. 
Garret  axed  him  once  of  a  Hansel-Monday  for  his  hansel*  and 
'tis  what  he  gave  him  was  that  wattle,  as  it  was  standing  behind 
the  parlour-doore.  "Here,  Garret,"  says  he,  "take  this  wattle, 
and  when  you  meet  with  a  greater  fool  than  yourself  you  may  give 
it  to  him."  Garret  took  it  without  a  word,  and  the  masther  never 
seen  him  after  till  the  other  day,  when  he  walked  into  his  bedroom 
where  he  was  lying  in  his  last  sickness,  with  the  wattle  still  in  his 
hand.  The  masther  knew  him  again,  the  minute  he  looked  at  him. 
"An'  didn't  you  part  the  wattle  yet,  Garret?"  says  he.  "No, 

*  On  the  first  Monday  of  the  new  year  (called  Hansel-Monday)  it 
is  customary  to  bestow  trifling  gifts  among  one's  acquaintances,  &c. , 
which  are  dominated  hansels. 

236 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

sir,"  says  Garret,  "I  can  find  nowhere  a  greater  fool  than  I  am 
myself."  "You  show  some  sense  in  that,  anyway,"  says  the 
masther.  "Ah,  Garret,"  says  he,  "I  b'lieve  I'm  going."  "Going 
where,  sir?"  says  Garret.  "Oh,  a  long  journey,"  says  he,  "an' 
one  that  I'm  but  little  provided  for."  "An'  did  you  know  you'd 
be  going  that  journey?"  says  Garret.  "I  did,  heaven  forgive 
me,"  says  McDonough.  "An'  you  made  no  preparation  for  it?" 
says  Garret.  "No  preparation  in  life,"  says  the  masther  to  him 
again.  Well,  Garret  moved  over  near  the  bedside,  and  took  the 
masther's  hand,  and  put  the  wattle  into  it,  just  that  way.  "Well," 
says  he,  "take  your  wattle  again.  You  desired  me  keep  it  until 
I'd  meet  a  greater  fool  than  myself,  an'  now  I  found  him;  for  if 
you  knew  you'd  be  taking  that  journey,  an'  made  no  preparation 
for  it,  you  are  a  greater  fool  than  ever  Garret  was."  ' 

'That  was  frightful!'  said  Poll.  'Husht!  Did  you  hear  that? 
Well,  if  ever  the  dead  woke,  they  ought  to  wake  to-night!  Did 
you  ever  hear  such  tundher  ? ' 

°Tis  great,  surely.  How  sound  Misther  Hardress  sleeps,  an' 
not  to  be  woke  by  that!  Put  the  candle  on  the  stool  at  this  side, 
Poll,  an'  don't  disturb  him.' 

They  now  proceeded  with  their  employment  in  silence,  which 
was  seldom  broken.  Any  conversation  that  passed  was  carried 
on  in  low  and  interrupted  whispers,  and  all  possible  pains  were 
used  to  avoid  disturbing,  by  the  slightest  noise,  the  repose  of  their 
weary  guest  and  patron. 

But  the  gnawing  passion  hunted  him  even  into  the  depth  of  sleep. 
A  murmur  occasionally  broke  from  his  lips,  and  a  hurried  whisper, 
sometimes  indicative  of  anger  and  command,  and  sometimes  of 
sudden  fear,  would  escape  him.  He  often  changed  his  position, 
and  it  was  observed  by  those  who  watched  beside  him  that  his 
breathing  was  oppressed  and  thick,  and  his  brow  was  damp  with 
large  drops  of  moisture. 

'The  Lord  defend  and  forgive  us  all!'  said  Phil,  in  a  whisper 
to  his  wife.  'I'm  afeerd — I'll  judge  nobody,  but  I'm  afeerd  there's 
some  bad  work,  as  you  say,  going  on  this  night.' 

'The  Lord  protect  the  poor  girl  that  left  us!'  whispered  Poll. 

'Amen! '  replied  her  husband  aloud. 

'Amen!'  echoed  the  sleeper;  following  the  association  awakened 
by  the  response,  he  ran  over  in  a  rapid  voice  a  number  of  prayers, 
such  as  are  used  in  the  morning  and  evening  service  of  his  church. 

237 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

'He's  saying  his  litanies,'  said  Poll.  'Phil,  come  into  the  next 
room,  or  wake  him  up,  either  one  or  the  other;  I  don't  like  to  be 
listenin'  to  him.  'Tisn't  right  of  us  to  be  taking  advantage  of 
anybody  in  their  dhrames.  Many  is  the  poor  boy  that  hung  him- 
self that  way  hi  his  sleep.' 

"Tis  a  bad  business,'  said  Phil;  'I  don't  like  the  look  of  it  at  all, 
I  tell  you.' 

'My  glove!  my  glove!'  said  the  dreaming  Hardress;  'you  used 
it  against  my  meaning.  I  meant  but  banishment.  We  shall  both 
be  hanged,  we  shall  be  hanged  for  this — ' 

'Come,  Phil!  Come,  come!'  cried  Poll  Naughten,  with  im- 
patience. 

'Stop,   eroo!    Stop!'   cried   her   husband.    'He's   choking,   I 
b'lieve!    Poll,  Poll!  the  light,  the  light!    Get  a  cup  o'  wather.' 
'Here  it  is!    Shake  him,  Phil!    Masther  Hardhress!    Wake, 
a'  ra  gal!' 

'Wake,  Masther  Hardress,  wake,  sir,  if  you  plase!' 
The  instant  he  was  touched,  Hardress  started  from  his  chair  as 
if  the  spring  that  bound  him  to  it  had  been  suddenly  struck,  and 
remained  standing  before  the  fire  in  an  attitude  of  strong  terror. 
He  did  not  speak — at  least  the  sounds  to  which  he  gave  utterance 
could  not  be  traced  into  any  intelligible  form,  but  his  look  and 
gesture  were  those  of  a  man  oppressed  with  a  horrid  apprehension. 
According,  however,  as  his  nerves  recovered  their  waking  vigour, 
and  the  real  objects  by  which  he  was  surrounded  became  known 
to  his  senses,  a  gradual  relief  appeared  to  steal  upon  his  spirits,  his 
eyelids  dropped,  his  muscles  were  relaxed,  and  a  smile  of  intense 
joy  was  visible  upon  his  features.  He  let  his  arms  fall  slowly  by 
his  side,  and  sunk  down  once  more,  with  a  murmur  of  painful 
satisfaction,  into  the  chair  which  he  had  left. 

But  the  vision  with  which  he  had  been  terrified  had  made  too 
deep  a  sign  on  his  imagination  to  be  at  once  removed.  His  dream 
had  merely  represented  in  act  a  horrid  deed,  the  apprehension  of 
which  had  shaken  his  soul  with  agony  when  awake,  and  had 
brought  him,  amid  those  obstacles  of  storm  and  darkness,  to  the 
cottage  of  his  neglected  wife.  His  fears  were  still  unquieted;  the 
frightful  image  that  bestrode  his  slumbers  yet  haunted  him  awake, 
and  opposed  itself  with  a  ghastly  vigour  to  his  eyes  in  whatever 
direction  they  were  turned.  Unable  to  endure  the  constant  re- 
currence of  this  indestructible  suggestion,  he  at  length  hurried  out 

238 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

of  the  cottage.  He  paid  no  attention  to  the  voice  of  Poll  Naughten, 
who  followed  him  to  the  door  with  his  great-coat  in  her  hand,  but 
ran  down  the  crags,  and  in  the  direction  of  his  home,  with  the  speed 
of  one  distract. 

The  light  which  burned  in  the  drawing-room  window  showed 
that  all  the  family  had  not  yet  retired.  His  mother,  as  he  learned 
from  old  Nancy,  was  still  expecting  his  return.  She  was  almost 
alone  in  the  house,  for  Mr.  Cregan  had  left  the  cottage  a  fortnight 
before  in  order  to  escort  Miss  Chute  to  her  own  home. 

She  was  seated  at  a  table,  and  reading  some  work  appropriate 
to  the  coming  festival,  when  Hardress  made  his  appearance  at  the 
door,  still  drenched  in  rain,  and  pale  with  agitation  and  fatigue. 
He  remained  on  the  threshold,  leaning  with  one  arm  against  the 
jamb,  and  gazing  on  the  lady. 

'What,  up  yet,  mother?'  he  said,  at  length.    Where's  Anne?' 

'Ha!  Hardress.  Oh,  my  dear  child,  I  have  been  anxiously  ex- 
pecting you.  Anne?  Do  you  forget  that  you  took  leave  of  her 
a  fortnight  since?' 

'  I  had  forgotten  it.    I  now  remember.     But  not  forever  ? ' 

'Why  should  you  say  it?  What  do  you  mean?'  said  Mrs. 
Cregan.  'Is  not  your  bridal  fixed  for  the  second  of  February? 
But  I  have  mournful  news  to  tell  you,  Hardress.' 

'Let  me  hear  none  of  it!'  exclaimed  the  unhappy  youth,  with 
great  vehemence.  'It  will  drive  me  mad  at  last.  Nothing  but 
mournful  news.  I'm  sick  of  it.  Wherever  I  turn  my  eyes  they 
encounter  nothing  now  but  mourning.  Coffins  and  corpses,  graves 
and  darkness,  all  around  me!  Mother,  your  son  will  end  his  days 
in  Bedlam.  Start  as  you  will,  I  say  but  what  I  feel  and  fear.  I 
find  my  reason  going  fast  to  wreck.  Oh,  mother,  I  will  die  an 
idiot  yet!' 

'My  child!' 

'Your  child!'  Hardress  reiterated  with  petulant  emphasis. 
'  And  if  I  was  your  child,  could  you  not  care  more  kindly  for  my 
happiness  ?  It  was  you  that  urged  me  on  to  this.  Mind,  I  comply, 
but  it  was  you  that  urged  me.  You  brought  me  into  danger,  and 
when  I  would  have  withdrawn,  you  held  me  there.  I  told  you 
that  I  was  engaged,  and  heaven  had  heard  and  earth  recorded  my 
pledge,  and  that  I  could  not  break  it.  Oh,  mother,  if  you  were  a 
mother,  and  if  you  saw  your  son  caught  by  a  treacherous  passion, 
if  you  saw  that  he  was  weak  and  yielding,  and  likely  to  be  overcome, 

239 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

you  should  have  strengthened  him.  It  would  have  been  a  mother's 
part  to  Warn  him  off,  to  take  the  side  of  honesty  against  his  weakness, 
and  make  him  virtuous  in  his  own  despite.  But  this  you  did  not. 
I  was  struggling  for  my  failing  honesty,  and  you  strove  against  me. 
I  rose  again  and  again,  almost  discomfited,  yet  still  unwilling  to 
yield  up  all  claim  to  truth,  and  again  and  again  you  struck  me 
down.  Behold  me  now!  You  have  succeeded  fully.  I  am  free 
now  to  execute  your  will — to  marry  or  hang,  whichever  you  please.' 

'Hardress!'  exclaimed  his  mother,  in  an  agony,  'I — ' 

'Oh,  no  more  remonstrance,  mother,  your  remonstrances  have 
been  my  curse  and  bane;  they  have  destroyed  me  for  this  world, 
and  for  the  next. 

'You  shock  me  to  the  soul.' 

'Well,  I  am  sorry  for  it.  Go  on;  tell  me  this  mournful  news. 
It  cannot  be  but  another  drop  in  the  ocean.  I  told  you  that  my 
reason  was  affected,  and  so  it  is.  I  know  it  by  the  false  colouring 
that  has  grown  upon  my  senses.  My  imagination  is  filled  con- 
tinually with  the  dreariest  images,  and  there  is  some  spirit  within 
me  that  tinges,  with  the  same  hue  of  death,  the  real  objects  I  behold. 
At  morning  if  I  look  upon  the  east  I  think  it  has  the  colour  of  blood, 
and  at  night  when  I  gaze  on  the  advancing  shadows,  I  think  of 
palls,  and  hearse-plumes,  and  habits  of  mourning.  Mother,  I  fear 
I  have  not  long  to  live.' 

'Fie,  Hardress,  fie!  Are  you  growing  superstitious?  For 
shame!  I  will  not  talk  with  you  to-night  upon  that  subject,  nor 
will  I  tax  you  with  the  manifest  unkindness  of  your  charges  on 
myself,  so  often  refuted,  yet  now  again  repeated.  I  have  a  matter 
of  weightier  interest  to  communicate.  You  know  Mrs.  Daly,  the 
mother  of  your  young  friend  Kyrle?' 

'There  again!'  exclaimed  Hardress,  starting  from  his  seat,  and 
speaking  with  passionate  loudness.  'There  again,  mother  I 
Another  horrid  treason!  Why,  the  whole  world  is  joining  in  one 
cry  of  reprobation  on  my  head.  Another  black  and  horrid  perfidy! 
Oh,  Kyrle,  my  friend,  my  calm,  high-minded,  virtuous,  and  serene 
companion!  He  trusted  me  with  everything,  told  me  his  secrets, 
showed  me  his  fears,  and  commended  his  hopes  to  my  patronage. 
And  what  have  I  done ?  I  pledged  myself  to  be  his  friend.  I  lied! 
I  have  supplanted  him!  How  shall  I  meet  him  now  for  evermore? 
I  feel  as  if  the  world  were  met  to  spit  upon  my  face.  This  should 
be  my  desert.  O  fool!  blind  fool! — Anne  Chute!  What  was 

240 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

Anne  Chute  to  me,  or  I  to  her,  that  I  should  thus  destroy  my  own 
repute,  betray  my  friend,  resist  my  Maker,  and  forsake  my—' 
Suddenly  arresting  his  speech  ^t  this  conjuncture,  he  sunk  back 
into  his  chair,  and  added  hi  a  low  murmur,  'Well,  mother,  tell  this 
mournful  news  at  once.' 

'It  is  soon  told,'  said  Mrs.  Cregan,  who  had  now  become  too  well 
accustomed  to  those  bursts  of  transient  passion  hi  her  son  to  afford 
them  any  angry  consideration.     'Poor  Mrs.  Daly  is  dead.' 
'Dead!' 

'  But  this  evening  I  heard  it.  The  circumstance  is  one  of  peculiar 
melancholy.  She  died  quite  unexpectedly  in  her  accouchment.' 

'  And  if  the  virtuous  are  thus  visited,'  said  Hardress,  after  a  pause, 
lifting  his  hands  and  eyes,  'what  should  not  I  expect?  I  wish  I 
were  fit  to  pray,  that  I  might  pray  for  that  kind  woman.' 

'There  is  one  act  of  mercy  hi  your  power,'  said  his  mother;  'you 
will  be  expected  at  the  wake  and  funeral.' 
'And  there  I  shall  meet  with  Kyrle!' 
'What  then?' 

'Oh,  nothing,  nothing.'  He  paused  for  several  minutes,  during 
which  he  leaned  on  the  table  in  a  meditative  posture.  His  counte- 
nance at  length  assumed  an  appearance  of  more  peaceful  grief,  and 
it  became  evident,  from  the  expression  of  his  eye,  that  a  more  quiet 
train  of  feeling  was  passing  through  his  mind. 

'Poor  Mrs.  Daly!'  he  said  at  last.  'If  one  would  be  wise  at  all 
times,  how  little  he  would  sacrifice  to  the  gratification  of  simple 
passion,  in  such  a  world  as  this.  Imprimis,'  he  continued,  count- 
ing on  his  finger-ends — 'imprimis,  a  cradle,  item,  clothing,  item, 
a  house,  item,  fire,  item,  food,  item,  a  coffin;  the  best  require  no 
more  than  these,  and  for  the  worst  you  need  only  add,  item,  a 
gallows,  and  you  have  said  enough.' 

Mrs.  Cregan  heard  this  speech  without  the  keen  anxiety  which 
she  would  have  felt  if  Hardress  had  been  less  passionate  in  his 
general  manner,  and  less  extravagant  in  his  mode  of  speech.  But 
knowing  this,  she  heeded  little  hi  him  what  would  have  filled  her 
with  terror  in  another. 

'Well,  will  you  go  to  the  wake,  Hardress?'  she  said.  'You  must 
set  out  to-morrow  morning  early.' 

'I  will,'  said  Hardress.  'It  is  a  long  distance,  but  I  can  be 
there,  at  all  events,  by  nightfall.  When  does  the  funeral  take 
place  ? ' 

241 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'I  suppose  after  to-morrow.  I  will  have  the  curricle  at  the  door 
by  daybreak,  for  you  must  set  me  down  at  Castle  Chute.  Go  now, 
and  change  your  dress  at  once,  or  you  will  suffer  for  it.  Nancy 
shall  take  you  a  warm  foot-bath,  and  a  hot  drink,  when  you  are  in 
your  room.' 

Hardress  returned  without  further  question.  The  idea  of  meet- 
ing with  Kyrle  Daly  after  the  unmanly  neglect,  and  even  betrayal 
of  his  interests,  was  now  the  one  which  occupied  his  sole  attention. 
Half  love  is  vanity;  at  least  a  fair  moiety  of  Hardress  Cregan's 
later  passion  might  be  placed  to  the  account  of  that  effeminate 
failing.  It  could  not,  therefore,  continue  to  maintain  its  hold  upon 
his  heart  against  a  passion  so  new  and  terrible  as  that  of  remorse. 
His  love  for  Anne  Chute  was  now  entirely  dormant  in  his  mind, 
and  his  reason  was  at  full  liberty  to  estimate  the  greatness  of  his 
guilt,  without  even  the  suggestion  of  a  palliative.  When  we  add  to 
this  the  cruel  uncertainty  in  which  he  remained  with  respect  to  the 
fate  of  Eily  O'Connor,  it  is  probable  that  few  who  hear  the  story 
will  envy  the  repose  of  Hardress  Cregan. 

For  one  instant  only,  during  his  conversation  with  Danny  Mann, 
the  idea  of  Eily's  death  had  flashed  upon  his  mind,  and  for  that 
instant  it  had  been  accompanied  with  a  sensation  of  wilful  pleasure. 
The  remembrance  of  this  guilty  thought  now  haunted  him  with  as 
deep  a  feeling  of  remorse  as  if  that  momentary  assent  had  been  a 
positive  act.  Whenever  his  eyelids  drooped  a  horrid  chain  of  faces 
passed  before  his  imagination,  each  presenting  some  characteristic 
of  death  or  pain,  some  appearing  to  threaten,  and  others  to  deride 
him.  In  this  manner  the  long  and  lonely  night  crept  by,  and  the 
dreary  winter  dawn  found  him  still  unrefreshed  and  feverish. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

HOW    HARDRESS     GOT    HIS    HAIR    DRESSED    IN    LISTOWEL,    AND 
HEARD    A    LITTLE    NEWS 

HE  rose,  and  found  that  his  mother  was  already  equipped  for 
the  journey.     They  took  a  hurried  breakfast  by  candle-light, 
while  Mike  was  employed  in  putting  the  horses  to  the  curricle. 
The  Lakes  were  covered  by  a  low  mist,  that  concealed  the  islands 

242 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

and  the  distant  shores,  and  magnified  the  height  of  the  gigantic 
mountains,  by  which  the  waters  are  walled  in.  Far  above  this 
slumbering  cloud  of  vapour,  the  close  and  widespread  forests  were 
seen  along  the  sides  of  the  stupendous  ridge,  the  trees  so  much 
diminished  by  the  distance,  and  by  the  illusion  produced  by  the 
novelty  of  the  point  of  vision,  as  to  resemble  a  garden  of  mangel- 
wurzel. 

Hardress  had  just  taken  his  seat  in  the  vehicle  beside  his  mother, 
when  a  servant  in  livery  rode  up  to  the  door,  and  touching  his  hat, 
put  a  letter  into  his  hand.  It  contained  an  invitation  from  Hepton 
Connolly  to  a  hunting  dinner,  which  he  was  about  to  give  in 
the  course  of  the  month.  Hardress  remained  for  a  moment  in 
meditation. 

'Well,  how  long  am  I  to  stop  here  waiting  for  my  answer?'  asked 
the  messenger  (the  insolent  groom  alluded  to  in  an  early  portion  of 
the  narrative). 

Hardress  stared  on  him  in  silence  for  some  moments.  'You  had 
better  go  in  and  breakfast,  I  think,'  he  said;  'you  don't  intend  to 
return  without  alighting?' 

'  Is  it  for  Hepton  Connolly  ?  Why  then,  you  may  take  your  vido, 
I  don't,  nor  for  any  other  masther  under  the  sun.  I  was  going  to 
take  my  breakfast  over  at  the  inn,  but  as  you  make  the  offer,  I'll 
not  pass  your  doore.' 

'You  do  me  a  great  honour.    When  does  the  hunt  take  place?' 

'In  three  weeks'  time,  I  believe,  or  something  thereabouts.' 

'Not  sooner?' 

'No.  I  wanted  him  to  have  it  at  once,  for  he  couldn't  have  finer 
weather,  an'  the  mare  is  in  fine  condition  for  it.  But  when  Connolly 
takes  a  thing  into  his  head,  you  might  as  well  be  talking  to  an  ass.' 

'Well,'  said  Hardress,  'tell  your  master  that  you  found  me  just 
driving  from  home,  and  that  I  will  come.' 

Saying  this  he  drove  away,  while  his  mother  remained  still  wrapt 
in  silent  astonishment  at  the  fellow's  impudence. 

'Such,'  said  Hardress,  'is  the  privilege  of  a  clever  groom.  That 
rogue  was  once  a  simple,  humble  cottager,  but  fortune  favoured 
him.  He  assisted  Connolly  to  win  a  sweepstakes,  which  gained 
him  a  reputation  on  the  turf;  and  fame  has  since  destroyed  him. 
You  would  not  know  whether  to  choose  between  indignation  and 
laughter,  if  you  were  present  at  the  conversations  that  sometimes 
take  place  between  him  and  his  master.' 

243 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'If,  instead  of  winning  me  the  King's  plate,  he  could  win  me  the 
Bang's  crown,  I  could  not  endure  him,'  said  the  proud  mother. 

'Nor  I,'  returned  her  prouder  son.     'Nor  I,  indeed.' 

About  noon,  they  stopped  to  bait  and  hear  mass  at  the  town  of 
Listowel.  Mrs.  Cregan  and  her  son  were  shown  into  a  little  par- 
lour at  the  inn,  the  window  of  which  looked  out  upon  the  square. 
The  bell  of  the  chapel  was  ringing  for  last  mass  on  the  other  side, 
and  numbers  of  people,  in  their  holiday  attire,  were  seen  in  the  wide 
area,  some  hurrying  towards  the  chapel  gate,  some  loitering  in 
groups  about  the  square,  and  some  sitting  on  the  low  window-sill 
stones. 

The  travellers  joined  the  first-mentioned  portion  of  the  crowd, 
and  performed  their  devotions;  at  least,  they  gave  the  sanction  of 
their  presence  to  the  ceremonial  of  the  day.  When  they  had  re- 
turned to  the  inn,  and  taken  their  places  in  the  little  parlour,  Mrs. 
Cregan,  after  fixing  her  eyes  for  a  moment  on  her  son,  exclaimed: 

'  Why,  Hardress,  you  are  a  perfect  fright.     Did  you  dress  to-day  ? ' 

'Not  particularly.' 

'Do  you  intend  to  call  in  at  Castle  Chute?' 

'Just  to  visit  in  passing.' 

'  Then  I  would  advise  you  by  all  means  to  do  something  at  your 
toilet  before  you  leave  this.' 

Hardress  took  up  a  mirror,  which  lay  on  the  wooden  chimney- 
piece,  and  satisfied  himself,  by  a  single  glance,  of  the  wisdom  of  his 
mother's  suggestion.  His  eyes  were  bloodshot,  his  beard  grown 
and  grisly,  and  his  hair  hanging  about  his  temples  in  most  ungrace- 
ful profusion.  He  rang  the  little  bell  which  lay  on  the  table,  and 
summoned  the  landlady  to  his  presence. 

It  would  be  difficult,  she  told  him,  to  procure  a  hair-cutter  to-day, 
being  holiday,  but  there  was  one  from  Garryowen  below,  that  would 
do  the  business  as  well  as  any  one  in  the  world,  if  he  had  only  got 
his  scissors  with  him. 

Hardress  started  at  the  name  of  Garryowen;  but,  as  he  did  not 
remember  the  hair-cutter,  and  felt  an  anxiety  to  hear  news  from 
that  quarter,  he  desired  the  stranger  to  be  shown  into  another 
room,  where  he  proposed  effecting  the  necessary  changes  in  his 
attire. 

He  had  scarcely  taken  his  seat  before  the  toilet,  when  a  soft  tap 
at  the  door,  and  the  sound  of  a  small,  squeaking  voice,  announced 
the  arrival  of  the  hair-cutter.  On  looking  round  him,  Hardress 

244 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

beheld  a  small,  thin-faced,  red-haired  little  man,  with  a  tailor's 
shears  dangling  from  his  finger,  bowing  and  smiling  with  a  timid 
and  conciliating  air.  In  an  evfl  hour  for  his  patience,  Hardress 
consented  that  he  should  commence  operations. 

'The  piatez  were  very  airly  this  year,  sir/  he  modestly  began, 
after  he  had  wrapped  a  check  apron  about  the  neck  of  Hardress 
and  made  other  necessary  arrangements. 

'  Very  early  indeed.    You  needn't  cut  so  fast' 

'Very  airly,  sir.  The  white-eyes  especially.  Them  white-eyes 
are  fine  piatez.  For  the  first  four  months  I  wouldn't  ax  a  better 
piatie  than  a  white-eye,  with  a  bit  o'  butter,  or  a  piggin  of  milk, 
or  a  bit  o'  bacon,  if  one  had  it;  but  after  that  the  meal  goes  out  of 
'em,  and  they  gets  wet  and  bad.  The  cups  arn't  so  good  hi  the 
beginnen  o'  the  saison,  but  they  hould  better.  Turn  your  head 
more  to  the  light,  sir,  if  you  please.  The  cups  indeed  are  a  fine, 
substantial,  lasting  piatie.  There's  great  nutriment  in  'em  for  poor 
people,  that  would  have  nothen'  else  with  them  but  themselves,  or  a 
grain  o'  salt.  There's  no  piatie  that  eats  better,  when  you  have 
nothen'  but  a  bit  o'  the  little  one  (as  they  say)  to  eat  with  a  bit  o' 
the  big.  No  piatie  that  eats  so  sweet  with  point.' 

'With  point?'  Hardress  repeated,  a  little  amused  by  this  fluent 
discussion  of  the  poor  hair-cutter,  upon  the  varieties  of  a  dish 
which,  from  his  childhood,  had  formed  almost  his  only  article  of 
nutriment,  and  on  which  he  expatiated  with  as  much  cognoscence 
and  satisfaction  as  a  fashionable  gourmand  might  do  on  the  culi- 
nary productions  of  Eustache  Ude.  'What  is  point?' 

' Don't  you  know  what  that  is,  sir?  I'll  tell  you  in  a  minute.  A 
joke  that  them  that  has  nothen'  to  do,  an'  plenty  to  eat,  make  upon 
the  poor  people  that  has  nothen'  to  eat,  an'  plenty  to  do.  That  is, 
when  there's  dry  piatez  on  the  table,  and  enough  of  hungry  people 
about  it,  and  the  family  would  have,  maybe,  only  one  bit  of  bacon 
hanging  up  above  their  heads,  they'd  peel  a  piatie  first,  and  then 
they'd  point  it  up  at  the  bacon,  and  they'd  fancy  within  their  own 
minds,  that  it  would  have  the  taste  o'  the  mail  when  they'd  be  aten' 
it,  after.  That's  what  they  call  point,  sir.  A  cheap  sort  o'  diet  it 
is,  Lord  help  us,  that's  plenty  enough  among  the  poor  people  in  this 
country.  A  great  plan  for  making  a  small  bit  of  pork  go  a  long 
way  in  a  large  family.' 

'Indeed  it  is  but  a  slender  sort  of  food.  Those  scissors  you  have 
are  dreadful  ones.' 

245 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'Terrible,  sir.  I  sent  my  own  over  to  the  forge,  before  I  left 
home,  to  have  an  eye  put  in  it;  only  for  that  I'd  be  smarter  a  deal. 
Slender  food  it  is,  indeed!  There's  a  deal  o'  poor  people  here  in 
Ireland,  sir,  that  are  run  so  hard  at  times,  that  the  wind  of  a  bit 
o'  mait  is  as  good  to  'em  as  the  mait  itself  to  them  that  would  be 
used  to  it.  The  piatez  are  everything,  the  kitchen  *  little  or  nothing. 
But  there's  a  sort  o'  piatez  (I  don't  know  did  your  honour  ever  taste 
'em  ?)  that's  getten'  greatly  in  vogue  now  among  'em,  an'  is  killing 
half  the  country:  the  white  piatez,  a  piatie  that  has  great  produce 
an'  requires  but  little  manure,  and  will  grow  in  very  poor  land;  but 
has  no  more  strength  or  nourishment  in  it,  than  if  you  had  boiled  a 
handful  o'  sawdust  and  made  gruel  of  it,  or  put  a  bit  of  a  deal 
boord  between  your  teeth,  and  thought  to  make  a  breakfast  of  it. 
The  black  bulls  themselves  are  better.  Indeed  the  black  bulls  are 
a  deal  a  better  piatie  than  they're  thought.  When  you'd  peel'  em, 
they  look  as  black  as  indigo,  an'  you'd  have  no  mind  to  'em  at  all; 
but  I  declare  they're  very  sweet  in  the  mouth,  an'  very  strengthen- 
ing. The  English  reds  are  a  nate  piatie,  too,  and  the  apple  piatie 
(I  don't  know  what  made  'em  be  given  up),  an'  the  kidney  (though 
delicate  of  rearing),  but  give  me  the  cups  for  all,  that  will  hould  the 
meal  in  'em  to  the  last,  and  won't  require  any  inthricket  tillage. 
Let  a  man  have  a  middling-sized  pit  o'  cups  again'  the  winter,  a 
small  ca ish'  (pig)  '  to  pay  his  rent,  an'  a  handful  o'  turf  behind  the 
doore,  an'  he  can  defy  the  world.' 

'You  know  as  much,  I  think,'  said  Hardress,  'of  farming  as  of 
hair-cutting.' 

'Oyeh,  if  I  had  nothen'  to  depend  upon  but  what  heads  come 
across  me  this  way,  sir,  I'd  be  in  a  poor  way  enough.  But  I  have 
a  little  spot  o'  ground  besides.' 

'And  a  good  taste  for  the  produce.' 

'  'Twas  kind  father  for  me  to  have  that  same.  Did  you  ever  hear 
tell,  sir,  of  what  they  call  limestone  broth  ? ' 

'Never.' 

"Twas  my  father  first  made  it.  I'll  tell  you  the  story,  sir,  if 
you'll  turn  your  head  this  way  a  minute.' 

Hardress  had  no  choice  but  to  listen. 

'My  father  went  once  upon  a  time  about  the  country,  in  the  idle 
season,  seeing  would  he  make  a  penny  at  all  by  cutting  hair,  or 
setting  razhurs  and  penknives,  or  any  other  job  that  would  fall  in 
*  Anything  eaten  with  potatoes. 
246 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

his  way.  Well  and  good— he  was  one  day  walking  alone  in  the 
mountains  of  Kerry  without  a  ha'p'ny  in  his  pocket  (for  though  he 
travelled  a-foot  it  cost  him  more  than  he  earned),  an'  knowing  there 
was  but  little  love  for  a  County  Limerick  man  in  the  place  where  he 
was,  an'  being  half  perished  with  the  hunger,  an'  evening  drawing 
nigh,  he  didn't  know  well  what  to  do  with  himself  till  morning. 
Very  good— he  went  along  the  wild  road,  an'  if  he  did  he  soon  see 
a  farmhouse,  at  a  little  distance,  o'  one  side;  a  snug-looking  place 
with  the  smoke  curling  up  out  of  the  chimney  an'  all  tokens  of  good 
living  inside.  Well,  some  people  would  live  where  a  fox  would 
starve.  What  do  you  think  did  my  father  do?  He  wouldn't  beg 
(a  thing  one  of  our  people  never  done  yet,  thank  heaven!),  an'  he 
hadn't  the  money  to  buy  a  thing,  so  what  does  he  do?  He  takes 
up  a  couple  o'  the  big  limestones,  that  were  lying  on  the  road,  in 
his  two  hands,  an'  away  with  him  to  the  house.  "Lord  save  all 
here!"  says  he,  walken'  in  the  doore.  "And  you  kindly,"  says 
they.  "I'm  come  to  you,"  says  he,  this  way,  looking  at  the  two 
limestones,  "to  know  would  you  let  me  make  a  little  limestone 
broth  over  your  fire,  until  I'll  make  my  dinner?"  "Limestone 
broth?"  says  they  to  him  again,  "what's  that,  eroo?"  "Broth 
made  o'  limestones,"  says  he,  "what  else?"  "We  never  heard  of 
such  a  thing,"  says  they.  "Why  then,  you  may  hear  it  now,"  says 
he,  "and  see  it  also,  if  you'll  gi'  me  a  pot  an'  a  couple  o'  quarts  o' 
soft  water."  "You  can  have  it  an'  welcome,"  says  they.  So  they 
put  down  the  pot  an'  the  water,  an'  my  father  went  over,  an'  tuk  a 
chair  hard  by  the  pleasant  fire  for  himself,  an'  put  down  his  two 
limestones  to  boil,  an'  kep'  stirring  them  round  like  stirabout. 
Very  good;  well,  by-an'-by  when  the  wather  began  to  boil,  "'Tis 
thickening  finely,"  says  my  father;  "now  if  it  had  a  grain  o'  salt 
at  all,  'twould  be  a  great  improvement  to  it."  "Raich  down  the 
salt-box,  Nell,"  says  the  man  o'  the  house  to  his  wife.  So  she  did. 
"O,  that's  the  very  thing,  just,"  says  my  father,  shaking  some  of  it 
into  the  pot.  So  he  stirred  it  again  awhile,  looking  as  sober  as  a 
minister.  By-an'-by,  he  takes  the  spoon  he  had  stirring  it,  an' 
tastes  it.  "It  is  very  good  now,"  says  he,  "although  it  wants 
something  yet."  "What  it  is?"  says  they.  "Oyeh,  wisha  noth- 
ing," says  he,  "maybe  'tis  only  fancy  o'  me."  "If  it's  anything 
we  can  give  you,"  says  they,  "you're  welcome  to  it."  "'Tis  very 
good  as  it  is,"  says  he,  "but  when  I'm  at  home,  I  find  it  gives  it  a 
fine  flavour  just  to  boil  a  little  knuckle  o'  bacon,  or  mutton  trotters, 

247 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

or  anything  that  way  along  with  it."  "Raich  hether  that  bone  o* 
sheep's  head  we  had  at  dinner  yesterday,  Nell,"  says  the  man  o' 
the  house.  "Oyeh,  don't  mind  it,"  says  my  father,  "let  it  be  as  it 
is."  "  Sure  if  it  improves  it,  you  may  as  well,"  says  they.  "Baither- 
shin!  "  *  says  my  father,  putting  it  down.  So  after  boiling  it  a  good 
piece  longer,  "'Tis  as  fine  limestone  broth,"  says  he,  "as  ever  was 
tasted,  an'  if  a  man  had  a  few  piatez,"  says  he,  looking  at  a  pot  of 
'em  that  was  smoking  in  the  chimney  corner,  "he  couldn't  desire  a 
better  dinner."  They  gave  him  the  piatez,  and  he  made  a  good 
dinner  of  themselves,  an'  the  broth,  not  forgetting  the  bone,  which 
he  polished  equal  to  chancy,  before  he  let  it  go.  The  people  them- 
selves tasted  it  an'  thought  it  as  good  as  any  mutton  broth  in  the 
world.' 

'Your  father,  I  believe,  knew  how  to  amuse  his  friends  after  a 
short  journey  as  well  as  any  other  traveller.' 

The  fellow  leered  at  Hardress,  thrust  out  his  lips,  and  winked 
with  both  eyes,  in  a  manner  which  cannot  be  expressed.  'He  was 
indeed  a  mighty  droll,  funny  man.  Not  interrupting  you,  sir,  I'll 
tell  you  a  thing  that  happened  him  in  the  hair-cutting  line  that  flogs 
all  Munster,  I  think,  for  'cuteness.' 

'I  am  afraid  I  cannot  wait  to  hear  it.  I  have  a  great  way  to  go 
to-day,  and  a  great  deal  to  do  before  I  set  off.' 

'That's  just  bidden'  me  go  on  with  my  story,  for  the  more  I  talk 
the  faster  I  work,  for  ever.  Just  turn  your  head  this  way,  sir.  if 
you  plase.  My  father — a  little  more  to  the  light,  sir, — my  father 
was  sitting  one  fine  morning  in  his  little  shop,  curling  a  front  curl 
belonging  to  a  lady  (we  won't  mention  who)  in  the  neighbourhood, 
with  the  sun  shining  in  the  doore,  an'  he  singing  a  little  song  for 
himself ;  an'  meself,  a  craithur,  sitting  by  the  fire,  looking  about  me 
and  sayen'  nothing.  Very  well,  all  of  a  sudden,  a  gentleman,  tall 
and  well  mounted,  rode  up  to  the  doore,  an' — "Hello,"  says  he, 
calling  out,  "can  I  get  myself  shaved  here?"  says  he.  "Why  not, 
plase  your  honour?"  says  my  father,  starting  up,  and  laying  the 
front  out  of  his  hand.  So  he  'lit  off  his  horse  an'  come  in.  He 
was  a  mighty  bould,  fierce-looking  gentleman,  with  tundhering  long 
sword  be  his  side,  down,  an'  a  pair  o'  whiskers  as  big  an'  red  as  a 
fox's  brush,  and  eyes  as  round  as  them  two  bull's  eyes  in  the  win- 
dow panes,  an'  they  having  a  sthrange  twisht  in  'em,  so  that 
when  he'd  be  looking  you  sthraight  in  the  face,  you'd  think  it's 

*  Be  it  so. 

248 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

out  at  the  doore  he'd  be  looking.  Besides  that,  when  he'd  spake, 
he  used  to  give  himself  a  loud,  roistering  way,  as  if  you  were  a  mile 
off,  an'  not  willing  to  come  nearer  or  to  be  said  by  him!  "Do  you 
mind  now,"  says  he,  an'  he  taking  a  chair  oppozzite  the  windee, 
while  my  father  smartened  himself  an  bate  up  a  lather.  "Ever 
and  always,  since  I  was  the  heighth  of  a  bee's  knee,"  says  he,  "I 
had  a  mortal  enmity  to  seeing  a  drop  o'  my  own  blood,  an'  I'll  tell 
you  what  it  is,"  says  he.  "What  is  it,  sir?  "  says  my  father.  "I'll 
make  a  clear  bargain  with  you  now,"  says  the  gentleman.  So  he 
took  out  a  half-crown  an'  laid  it  upon  the  table,  an'  after  that  he 
drew  his  sword,  an'  laid  it  hard  by  the  half-crown.  "Do  you  see 
them  two  now ?"  says  he.  "I  do,  surely,"  says  my  father.  "The 
half-crown  will  be  yours,"  says  the  gentleman,  "if  you'll  shave  me 
without  drawen'  my  blood,  but  if  I  see  as  much  as  would  make  a 
breakfast  for — "  (he  named  an  animal  that  I  won't  mention  after 
him  now)  "if  I  see  so  much  after  you,"  says  he,  "I'll  run  this 
swoord  through  your  body,  as  sure  as  there's  mait  in  mutton.  So 
look  before  you  lep;  if  you  won't  take  the  bargain,  say  it,  and  let 
me  ride  away,"  says  he.  This  was  in  times  when  a  gentleman, 
that  way,  would  think  as  little  a'most  of  doing  a  thing  o'  the  kind 
to  a  poor  Catholic,  as  he  would  now  of  saying  it, — so  well  became 
my  father  to  look  to  himself.  "You'll  never  have  it  to  say  o'  me," 
says  my  father,  "that  I  wouldn't  trust  my  hand  so  far  at  any  rate 
in  the  business  I  was  bred  to."  So  to  it  they  fell,  an'  as  Provi- 
dence ordered  it,  my  father  shaved  him  without  one  gash,  an'  put 
the  half-crown  in  his  pocket.  "Well,  now  'tis  done,"  says  the 
gentleman,  "but  you're  a  foolish  man."  "How  so,  sir?  "  says  my 
father.  "Because  so  sure  as  I  saw  the  blood,"  says  the  other, 
"I'd  make  my  word  good."  "But  you  never  would  see  the  blood, 
sir,"  says  my  father,  quite  easy,  "because  I'd  see  it  before  you,  'an 
I'd  cut  your  throath  with  the  razhur."  Well,  'twas  as  good  as  a 
play  to  see  the  look  the  gentleman  gave  him  when  he  said  that. 
He  didn't  answer  him  a  word,  but  mounted  his  horse  and  rode 
away.' 

'He  found  his  match  in  the  hair-cutter,'  said  Hardress,  rejoiced 
as  the  story  ended. 

'I'll  be  bound,  sir,  he  was  in  no  hurry  to  make  bargains  o'  that 
kind  any  more.  'Twas  a  mighty  good  answer,  sir,  wasn't  it?' 

'A  desperate  one,  at  all  events.' 

'Ah,  desperate,  you  may  say  that;  but  my  father  was  sure  of  his 

249 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

hand.  I'll  tell  you  another  droll  thing  that  happened  my  father 
once,  when — ' 

But  the  patience  of  his  listener  was  here  completely  stranded. 
The  hair-cutter  had  got  such  a  miserable  pair  of  shears  that  he  was 
obliged  to  use  as  much  exertion  in  clipping  the  hair,  as  a  tinker  or 
a  plumber  might  do  in  cutting  sheet  lead.  Besides,  being  ac- 
customed to  that  professional  flippancy  of  movement  which,  with 
proper  instruments,  might  have  expedited  the  operation,  he  made 
no  allowance  for  the  badness  of  his  scissors,  but  clipped  and 
plucked  away  as  fast  as  usual;  thus  contriving  to  tear  up  half  as 
much  by  the  roots  as  he  removed  in  the  usual  course  of  business. 
This,  and  other  circumstances,  induced  Hardress  to  place  a  de- 
cided negative  in  the  way  of  his  anecdotes,  until  he  had  concluded 
his  task. 

This  being  accomplished,  Hardress  raised  his  hand  to  his  head, 
and  experienced  a  sensation  on  the  palm  somewhat  similar  to  that 
which  would  be  produced  by  placing  it  on  an  inverted  hair-brush. 
On  looking  in  the  glass,  he  discovered  that  his  hair  had  been  cut 
into  a  fashion  which  enjoys  a  lasting  popularity  at  fairs  and  cottage 
merry-makings;  but,  however  consistent  with  the  interests  of  per- 
sons who  only  employed  a  barber  once  in  a  quarter,  and  then  sup- 
posed that  the  closer  he  cut  the  better  value  he  gave  for  the  money, 
it  was  by  no  means  in  accordance  with  the  established  notions  of 
good  taste.  There  were,  indeed,  no  gaps,  as  he  boasted,  for  he  had 
cut  it  almost  as  bare  as  a  wig-block,  leaving  only  a  narrow  fringe 
in  front,  from  ear  to  ear,  like  the  ends  of  a  piece  of  silk.  There 
was  no  help,  however,  for  mischief  once  effected,  so  that  Hardress 
paid  him  without  remark,  and  paid  him  liberally. 

The  little  hair-cutter  took  it  for  granted,  by  the  handsome  manner 
in  which  his  customer  had  compensated  for  his  services,  that  he  was 
highly  gratified  with  the  manner  in  which  they  had  been  performed. 

'If  your  honour,'  he  said,  bowing  very  low,  'would  be  passing 
through  Garryowen,  an'  would  be  inclined  to  lave  any  o'  your  hair 
behind  you,  maybe  you'd  think  of  Dunat  O'Leary's  shop,  on  the 
right-hand  side  o'  the  sthreet,  three  doores  down  from  Mihil 
O'Connor's,  the  ropemaker's ? ' 

'I  will,  I  will,'  said  Hardress,  turning  suddenly  away. 

Mr.  O'Leary  walked  slowly  to  the  door,  and  again  returned. 

'There's  a  great  set  o'  lads  about  the  place,  sir,'  he  said,  in  his 
usual  shrill  voice,  while  a  slight  degree  of  embarrassment  appeared 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

in  his  manner,  'an'  they're  forever  christenin'  people  out  o'  their 
names,  till  a  man  is  better  known  by  a  nickname  than  by  his  own. 
'Tis  ten  to  one,  plase  your  honour,  that  you'll  be  the  surer  of  find- 
ing me  by  asking  for  Foxy  Dunat,  than  for  my  own  lawful  name, 
they're  such  a  set  o'  lads.' 

'Very  well,  I  will.     Good  morning.     Foxy  Dunat?' 
'Yes,  sir,  Foxy,  in  regard  of  the  red  hair  that's  on  me.    Ah, 
there's  no  standing  them  lads.' 

'Very  well;  good  morning,  Foxy  Dunat.    I'll  remember.' 
'Good  morning  to  your  honour.     Stay!'  he  once  more  returned 
from  the  door.     'See  what  I  was  doing;   carrying  your  honour's 
hair  away  with  me.' 

'Well,  and  what  business  do  you  suppose  I  have  of  it  now? — I 
am  not  a  wig-maker.' 

'I  don't  know,  sir,  but  people  mostly  likes  to  put  it  up  in  some 
safe  place  again'  the  day  of  judgment,  as  they  say.' 
'The  day  of  judgment!' 

'Yes,  plase  your  honour.  We  must  have  everything  about  us 
then  that  ever  belonged  to  us,  and  a  man  would  look  droll  that 
time  without  his  hair.' 

Hardress  was  not  in  a  humour  for  jesting,  but  he  could  not  avoid 
smiling  in  secret  at  this  conceit. 

i  'Very  well,'  he  said,  tapping  the  hair-cutter  on  the  shoulder,  and 
looking  gravely  in  his  face.  'As  I  am  going  a  long  journey  at 
present,  I  will  feel  obliged  by  your  keeping  it  for  me  until  then, 
and  I  will  call  to  you  if  I  want  it.' 

'As  your  honour  feels  agreeable,'  said  Dunat,  again  bowing  low, 
and  moving  towards  the  door.  Nevertheless,  he  did  not  leave  the 
room  until  he  had  made  the  young  gentleman  acquainted  with  all 
the  circumstances  that  occasioned  his  absence  from  home  at  this 
moment.  In  doing  so,  he  unwarily  touched  Hardress  to  the  life.  He 
had  come,  he  said,  in  consequence  of  a  letter  he  had  received  from 
a  neighbour's  daughter  that  had  run  away  from  her  father,  and  was 
hid  somewhere  among  the  Kerry  mountains. 

'A  letter  which  you  received!'  exclaimed  Hardress,  in  strong 
surprise. 

'Yes,  sir;  telling  me  she  was  alive,  and  bidding  me  let  the  old 
man  know  of  it:  the  old  ropemaker  I  mentioned  awhile  ago.  Since 
I  came,  I  heard  it  reported  at  Castle  Island,  this  morning,  that  she 
was  drownded  somewhere  in  the  Flesk.' 

251 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'Drowned!  Eily  drowned!'  Hardress  suddenly  exclaimed, 
starting  from  a  reverie,  as  the  single  word  struck  upon  his  hearing. 

'Eily  was  her  name,  sure  enough,'  replied  O'Leary,  staring  on 
him,  'howsomdever  you  come  to  know  it.' 

'I — I — you  mentioned  that  name,  I  think,  did  you  not?' 

'Maybe  it  slipped  from  me,  sir.  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  they 
thought  she  was  drownded  there,  an'  they  wor  for  having  a  sheaf  o' 
reed,  with  her  name  tied  upon  it,  put  out  upon  the  sthrame,  for  they 
say,  when  a  person  dies  by  water,  the  sheaf  o'  reed  will  float  against 
the  sthrame,  or  with  the  sthrame,  until  it  stops  over  the  place  where 
the  body  lies,  if  it  had  to  go  up  O 'Sullivan's  Cascade  itself.  But 
Father  Edward  O'Connor  desired  'em  to  go  home  about  their 
business,  that  the  sheaf  would  go  with  the  current,  an'  no  way  else, 
if  they  were  at  it  from  this  till  doomsday.  To  be  sure  he  knew 
best.' 

At  this  moment,  the  landlady  knocked  at  the  door,  to  inform  our 
collegian  that  Mrs.  Cregan  was  expecting  him  without.  Having 
concluded  his  toilet,  he  hurried  out  of  the  room,  not  displeased  at 
his  release  from  the  observation  of  this  stranger  at  a  moment  when 
he  felt  his  agitation  increasing  to  an  extent  that  was  almost  un- 
governable. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

HOW    KYRLE    DALY    HEARS    OF    THE    HANDSOME    CONDUCT    OF   HIS 
FRIEND  HARDRESS 

PREVIOUS  to  Anne  Chute's  departure  from  the  cottage  of 
her  aunt,  all  the  arrangements  necessary  for  her  marriage 
with  Hardress  had  been  verbally  agreed  upon.  A  feeling  of 
decorum  only  prevented  the  legal  preliminaries  from  being  put  in 
form  before  her  return  to  her  mother's  castle.  The  singularly 
unequal  and  unaccountable  behaviour  of  her  intended  husband 
during  the  whole  course  of  wooing,  had  left  her  mind  in  a  condition 
of  distressing  annoyance  and  perplexity.  Though  she  still  loved 
Hardress  well,  it  was  with  an  anxious  and  uneasy  affection,  such 
as  she  should  entertain  for  a  mysterious  being  whose  talents  had 
fascinated  her  will,  but  of  whose  real  nature  she  yet  remained  in 
troubled  ignorance. 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

Fame,  who  never  moves  her  wings  so  swiftly  as  when  she  has 
got  a  tale  to  tell  of  death  or  marriage,  soon  spread  the  information 
far  and  wide.  The  manner  in  which  it  reached  the  ears  of  Kyrle 
Daly  was  sudden  as  it  was  unwelcome. 

He  had  gone  down  to  the  dairy-farm  for  the  purpose  of  shore- 
shooting,  and  was  returning  in  order  to  spend  the  Little  Christmas 
at  home.  It  was  about  noon  when  he  rode  by  the  gate  at  Castle 
Chute.  The  door  of  the  dwelling-house  stood  open,  and  several 
figures  appeared  on  the  broad  stone  steps.  They  were  too  distant 
to  be  recognized,  but  Kyrle  glanced  with  a  beating  pulse  towards 
that  part  of  the  building  which  contained  the  sleeping-chamber  of 
his  mistress.  The  window  shutters  were  unclosed,  and  it  was 
evident  that  Anne  Chute  had  once  more  become  a  resident  in  the 
Castle. 

In  order  to  be  assured  of  the  reality  of  this  belief,  young  Daly 
spurred  on  his  horse  as  far  as  the  caravansary  of  Mr.  Normile, 
already  celebrated  in  the  early  part  of  our  history.  That  individual, 
whom  he  found  in  the  act  of  liberating  an  unruly  pig,  after  payment 
of  pound  fees,  informed  him  of  the  arrival  at  Castle  Chute,  a  fort- 
night previous,  of  its  young  heiress,  and  her  uncle. 

He  rode  on,  unwilling  to  trust  himself  with  any  lengthened  con- 
versation on  this  subject,  while  under  the  shrewd  eye  of  an  Irish 
peasant.  All  his  former  passion  returned  in  an  instant,  and  with 
an  intensity  which  surprised  himself.  It  had  been  the  labour  of 
his  life  since  his  last  interview  with  the  young  lady  above  named, 
to  remove  her  quietly  from  his  recollection,  and  he  flattered  himself 
that  he  had,  in  a  great  degree,  succeeded.  He  was  no  believer  in 
the  romantic  and  mischievous  supposition  that  true  love  never 
changes,  nor  decays,  even  when  hope  has  left  it.  He  knew  that 
there  were  many  effeminate  and  sensitive  characters  who,  having 
once  permitted  their  imaginations  to  become  deeply  impressed, 
are  afterwards  weak  enough  to  foster  that  impression,  even  while 
it  is  making  inroads  upon  their  health  and  peace;  but  such  beings 
were  the  object  of  his  pity,  not  of  his  esteem.  He  was  neither  a 
fanatic  nor  a  voluptuary  in  the  passion.  If,  therefore,  he  had  dis- 
covered that  any  one  of  those  rational  considerations,  on  which  his 
love  was  founded,  had  been  erroneously  taken  up,  if  he  had  dis- 
covered that  the  lady  was  in  reality  unworthy  of  the  place  to  which 
he  had  raised  her,  we  do  not  say  he  would  at  once  have  ceased  to 
love,  but  he  should  certainly  have  experienced  much  less  difficulty 

253 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

in  subduing  the  frequent  agitations  of  the  passion.  But  he  had 
not  the  assistance  of  such  a  conviction,  and  it  was  only  after  a  long 
and  vigilant  exercise  of  his  habitual  firmness,  that  he  had  reduced 
his  mind  to  a  state  of  dormant  tranquillity. 

Opportunity,  therefore,  was  only  needed  to  rouse  it  up  once  more 
in  all  its  former  strength.  That  opportunity  had  now  arrived,  and 
Kyrle  Daly  found  that  the  trial  was  a  more  searching  one  than  he 
had  been  led  to  think.  He  yielded  for  a  moment  to  the  recollec- 
tions which  pressed  upon  him,  and  slackened  the  pace  of  his  steed. 
He  looked  upon  the  castle  and  its  quiet  bay,the  point,  the  wood, 
the  waves,  and  the  distant  hills  of  Clare.  He  passed  the  little  sandy 
slope  on  which  he  had  witnessed  the  festivities  of  the  saddle-race, 
and  which  now  looked  wintry,  lone,  and  bleak,  in  the  December 
blast.  The  face  of  the  river  was  dark  and  troubled;  the  long 
waves  of  the  half-flood  tide  rolled  in  and  broke  upon  the  sands, 
leaving  a  track  of  foam  upon  the  water's  verge,  while  a  long  black 
line  of  sea-weed  marked  the  height  to  which  it  had  arisen  on  the 
shore.  He  glanced  at  the  pathway  from  the  road  on  which  his 
hopes  had  experienced  their  last  decisive  and  severe  repression. 
His  feelings,  at  this  moment,  approached  the  limits  of  pain  too 
nearly,  and  he  spurred  on  his  horse  to  hurry  away  from  them,  and 
from  the  scene  on  which  they  had  been  first  called  into  action. 

He  had  not  ridden  far  when  he  heard  loud  bursts  of  laughter,  and 
the  tramp  of  many  horses  in  the  road  behind  him.  The  voices  were 
raised  high  in  the  competition  to  obtain  a  hearing,  and  he  thought 
the  accents  were  not  those  of  strangers.  The  proud  politeness  of 
an  Irish  gentleman,  which  was  rather  conventional  than  natural 
with  Kyrle  Daly,  prevented  his  looking  round  to  satisfy  his  curiosity 
until  the  party  had  ridden  up,  and  he  heard  his  own  name  coupled 
with  a  familiar  greeting  by  many  voices.  Turning  on  his  saddle, 
he  beheld  Mr.  Connolly,  Mr.  Hyland  Creagh,  Doctor  Leake,  and 
Captain  Gibson,  riding  abreast  and  laughing  immoderately. 

'Connolly,  how  are  you?  How  are  you,  doctor?  Mr.  Creagh, 
Captain,'  touching  his  hat  slightly  to  the  latter,  'what's  all  the  fun 
about  ? ' 

'I'll  tell  Daly,'  said  Connolly,  'he's  a  lawyer.' 

'Pish!'  replied  Doctor  Leake,  "tis  too. foolish  a  thing;  you  will 
make  him  laugh  at  you.' 

'Foolish!  It  is  the  best  story  I  ever  heard  in  my  life.  Eh, 
Captain  ? ' 

254 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

Captain  Gibson  replied  by  an  excessive  roar  of  laughter,  and 
Hyland  Creagh  protested  it  was  worthy  of  the  days  of  the  Hell-fire 
Club.  Connolly  looked  down  in  scornful  triumph  upon  the  doctor, 
who  tossed  his  head  and  sneered  in  silence. 

'I'll  tell  you  how  it  was,'  said  Connolly.  'I  believe  'tis  no  secret 
to  you,  or  any  other  acquaintance  of  mine,  that  I  owe  more  money 
to  different  friends  than  I  am  always  willing  to  pay — 

"Owing  more  couldn't  pay, 
Owing  more  ran  away:" 

so,  if  I  should  come  to  borrow  money  of  you,  you  had  better  keep 
it  in  your  pocket,  I  advise  you.  But  it  so  happened  that  we  spent 
the  other  evening  at  a  friend's  in  the  neighbourhood,  who  could  not 
afford  me  a  bed,  so  I  went  to  hammock  at  Normile's  Inn.  In  the 
morning,  I  stepped  out  to  the  stable,  to  see  how  my  horse  had  been 
made  up  in  the  night,  when  I  felt  a  tap  on  the  shoulder— just  like 
that — do  you  feel  it  at  all  electrical?'  (he  touched  Kyrle's  shoulder) 
• — '/  do,  always.  I  turned,  and  saw  a  fellow  in  a  brown  coat  with 
a  piece  of  paper  in  his  hand.  I  was  compelled  to  accept  his  invita- 
tion, so  I  requested  that  ke  would  step  into  the  inn,  while  I  was 
taking  a  little  breakfast.  While  I  was  doing  so,  and  while  he  was 
sitting  at  the  other  side  of  the  fire,  in  walked  Pat  Falvey,  Mrs. 
Chute's  footman,  with  his  mistress's  compliments,  to  thank  me  for 
a  present  of  baking  apples  I  had  sent  her.  I  winked  at  Pat,  and 
looked  at  the  bailiff.  "Pat,"  says  I,  "tell  your  mistress  not  to 
mention  it;  and,  Pat,"  says  I,  dropping  to  a  whisper,  "I'm  a 
prisoner."  "Very  well,  sir,"  says  Pat  aloud,  and  bowing,  as  if  I 
had  given  him  some  message.  He  left  the  room,  and  in  ten  minutes 
I  had  the  whole  parish  about  the  windows.  They  came  in,  they 
called  for  the  bailiff,  they  seized  him,  and  beat  him,  until  they 
didn't  leave  him  worth  looking  at.  Dooley,  the  nailer,  caught  his 
arm,  and  O'Reilly,  the  blacksmith,  ,ook  him  by  the  leg,  and  another 
by  the  hair,  and  another  by  the  throat,  and  such  a  show  as  they 
made  of  him  before  five  minutes  I  never  contemplated.  But  here 
was  the  beauty  of  it.  I  knew  the  law,  so  I  opposed  the  whole  pro- 
ceeding. "No  rescue,"  says  I;  "I  am  his  prisoner,  gentlemen,  and 
I  will  not  be  rescued,  so  don't  beat  the  man! — don't  toss  him  in  a 
blanket! — don't  drag  him  in  the  puddle! — don't  plunge  him  into  the 
horse-pond,  I  intreat  you ! "  By  some  fatality,  my  intentions  were 
wholly  misconceived,  and  they  performed  exactly  the  things  that  I 

255 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

warned  them  to  avoid.  They  did  beat  him,  they  did  toss  him  in  a 
blanket,  they  did  drag  him  through  the  puddle,  and  they  did  plunge 
him  into  the  horse-pond!  Only  imagine  what  was  my  chagrin  and 
disappointment!  Dr.  Leake  maintains  that  it  is  a  misprision  of 
battery,  a  law  term  I  never  heard  in  my  life.  As  if,  by  desiring 
them  not  to  drag  him  through  the  horse-pond,  I  imagined  their 
doing  it;  then  it  was  an  overt  act  of  dragging  him  through  the 
horse-pond.  Compassing  the  dragging  him  through  would  have 
been  an  actual  act  of  battery,  but  the  imagining  of  it  is  only  an  overt 
act.  As  among  the  English  regicides,  by  cutting  off  the  head  of 
Charles  they  were  said  to  imagine  his  death,  which  was  an  overt  act 
of  treason,  whereas  compassing  his  death  was  the  actual  treason 
itself.  But  in  this  case  I  deny  both  the  compassing  and  the  imagina- 
tion. What  do  you  think  of  it,  Mr.  Daly?' 

'I  think,'  said  Kyrle,  with  a  smile,  'that  you  ought  to  come  and 
take  my  opinion  on  it,  some  day  or  other.' 

<  Ah,  ha ! '  replied  Connolly,  shaking  his  head.  '  I  understand  you, 
young  lawyer!  Well,  when  I  have  a  fee  to  spare,  you  shall  have  it. 
But  here  is  the  turn  up  to  my  house.  Est  ubi  locus — how  I  forget 
my  Latin !  Daly,  will  you  come  up  and  dine  with  me  ? ' 

'I  cannot,  thank  you.' 

'  Well,  I'm  sorry  for  it.     Creagh,  you're  not  going  ? ' 

'I  must.' 

'Stop  and  dine.' 

'No.    I'll  see  you  to-morrow.    I  have  business  in  town.' 

The  party  separated,  Kyrle  Daly  and  Creagh  continuing  to  ride 
in  the  same  direction,  while  the  rest  wheeled  off  by  a  narrow  and 
broken  by-road. 

'  You  will  be  at  the  marriage,  I  suppose,  Mr.  Daly  ? '  said  the  latter 
gentleman,  after  a  silence  of  some  minutes. 

'What  wedding?'  asked  Kyrle,  in  some  surprise. 

'Why,  have  you  not  heard  of  it?     Miss  Chute's  wedding.' 

'Miss  Chute!'  Kyrle  repeated,  faintly. 

'Yes.  Everything,  I  understand,  has  been  arranged  for  the 
ceremony,  and  Cregan  tells  me  it  is  to  take  place  next  month. 
She  would  be  a  magnificent  wife  for  any  man ! ' 

It  was  some  moments  before  Kyrle  could  recover  breath  to  ask 
another  question. 

'And — a — of  course  you  heard  who  was  to  be  the  bridegroom?' 
he  said,  with  much  hesitation. 

256 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

'Oh,  yes.  I  thought  he  was  a  friend  of  yours.  Mr.  Hardress 
Cregan.' 

'Cregan!'  exclaimed  Kyrle  aloud,  and  starting,  as  if  he  had  re- 
ceived a  galvanic  shock.  'It  is  impossible.' 

'Sir!'  said  Creagh,  sternly. 

'I  think,'  said  Kyrle,  governing  himself  by  a  violent  exertion, 
'you  must  have  been  misinformed.  Hardress  Cregan  is,  as  you  say, 
my  friend,  and  he  cannot  be  the  man.' 

'I  seldom,  sir,'  said  Creagh,  with  a  haughty  curl  on  his  lip, 
'converse  with  any  person  who  is  capable  of  making  false  assertions, 
and  in  the  present  instance,  I  should  think  the  gentleman's  father 
no  indifferent  authority.' 

Again  Kyrle  Daly  paused  for  some  minutes,  in  an  emotion  of 
deep  apprehension.  'Has  Mr.  Cregan  then  told  you,'  he  said,  that 
his  son  was  to  be  the  bridegroom  ? ' 

'I  have  said,  he  has.' 

Daly  closed  his  lips  hard,  and  straightened  his  person,  as  if  to 
relieve  an  internal  pain.  This  circumstance  accounted  for  the 
enigmatical  silence  of  his  friend.  But  what  a  horrible  solution! 

'It  is  very  strange,'  he  said,  'notwithstanding.  There  are  many 
impediments  to  such  a  marriage.  He  is  her  cousin.' 

'Pooh,  pooh,  that's  a  name  of  courtesy.  It  is  only  a  connection 
by  affinity.  Cousin?  Hang  them  all,  cousins,  on  a  string,  say  I! 
They  are  the  most  dangerous  rivals  a  man  can  have.  Any  other 
man  you  can  call  out,  and  shoot  through  the  head,  if  he  attempts 
to  interfere  with  your  prospects,  but  cousins  must  have  a  privilege. 
The  lady  may  walk  with  her  cousin  (hang  him!),  and  she  may  dance 
with  her  cousin,  and  write  to  her  cousin,  and  it  is  only  when  she  has 
run  away  with  her  cousin,  that  you  find  you  have  been  cozened 
with  a  vengeance.' 

While  Creagh  made  this  speech,  Kyrle  Daly  was  running  over 
in  his  mind  the  entire  circumstances  of  young  Cregan's  conduct,  and 
the  conclusion  to  which  his  reflection  brought  him  was,  that  a  more 
black  and  shameless  treason  had  never  been  practised  between  man 
and  man.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Kyrle  Daly  wholly  lost  his 
self-government.  Principle,  religion,  duty,  justice,  all  vanished 
for  the  instant  from  his  mind,  and  nothing  but  the  deadly  injury 
remained  to  stare  him  in  the  face. 

'I  will  horsewhip  him!'  he  said  within  his  mind;  'I  will  horsewhip 
him  at  the  wedding  feast.  The  cool,  dark  hypocrite!  I  suppose, 

257 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

sir,'  he  said  aloud,  turning  to  Creagh  with  a  smile  of  calm  and 
dignifitd  courtesy,  'I  suppose  I  may  name  you  as  my  authority  for 
this?' 

'  Certainly,  certainly,'  returned  the  old  duellist  with  a  short  bow, 
while  his  eyes  lit  up  with  pleasure  at  the  idea  of  an  affair  of  honour. 
'Stay  a  moment,  Mr.  Daly,'  he  added,  as  the  young  gentleman  was 
about  to  quicken  his  pace.  'I  perceive,  sir,  that  you  are  going  to 
adopt,  in  this  business,  the  course  that  is  usual  among  men  of 
honour.  Now,  I  have  had  a  little  experience  in  these  affairs,  and 
I  am  willing  to  be  your  friend — ' 

'Pardon  me,  Mr.  Creagh,  I — ' 

'Nay,  pardon  me,  Mr.  Daly,  if  you  please.  I  do  not  mean  your 
friend  in  the  usual  acceptation  of  the  term,  I  do  not  mean  your 
second,  you  may  have  a  desire  to  choose  for  yourself  in  that  respect. 
I  merely  wished  to  say,  that  I  could  afford  you  some  useful  hints  as 
to  your  conduct  on  the  ground.  In  the  first  place,  look  to  your 
powder.  Dry  it,  yourself,  over-night,  on  a  plate,  which  you  may 
keep  hot  over  a  vessel  of  warm  water.  Insert  your  charge  at  the 
breech  of  the  pistol,  and  let  your  ball  be  covered  with  kid  leather 
softened  with  the  finest  salad  oil.  See  that  your  barrel  is  polished 
and  free  from  dust.  I  have  known  many  a  fine  fellow  lose  his  life, 
by  purchasing  his  ammunition  at  a  grocer's,  on  the  morning  of  the 
duel.  They  bring  it  him  out  of  some  cask  in  a  damp  cellar,  and  of 
course  it  hangs  fire.  Do  you  avoid  that  fault.  Then,  when  you 
come  to  the  ground — level  ground,  of  course — fix  your  eye  on  some 
object  beyond  your  foe,  and  bring  him  in  a  line  with  that,  then  let 
your  pistol  hang  by  your  side,  and  draw  an  imaginary  line  from 
the  mouth  of  the  barrel  to  the  third  button  of  your  opponent's 
coat.  When  the  word  is  given,  raise  your  weapon  rapidly  along  that 
line,  and  fire  at  the  button.  He  will  never  hear  the  shot.' 

'Tell  me,  Mr.  Creagh,'  said  Kyrle  in  a  grave  tone,  after  he  had 
heard  those  murderous  directions  to  the  end,  'are  not  you  a  friend 
of  Mr.  Cregan  ? ' 

'  Yes.     Very  old  friends. ' 

'Do  you  not  dine  at  his  table,  and  sleep  under  his  roof  from  day 
today?' 

'Pray,  what  is  the  object  of  those  curious  questions?' 

'It  is  this,'  said  Kyrle,  fixing  his  eyes  fully  upon  the  man;  'I  find 
it  impossible  to  express  the  disgust  I  feel  at  hearing  you,  the  pro- 
fessed and  bounden  friend  of  that  family,  thus  practise  upon  the 

258 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

life  of  one  of  its  chief  members,  the  son  of  your  benefactor. 
Away,  sir,  with  your  bloody  science,  to  those  who  will  become 
your  pupils!  I  hope  the  time  will  come  in  Ireland  when  you  and 
your  mean  and  murderous  class  shall  be  despised  and  trampled  on 
as  you  deserve.' 

'How  am  I  to  take  this,  Mr.  Daly?' 

'As  you  will!'  exclaimed  Kyrle,  driven  wholly  beyond  the  bounds 
of  self-possession,  and  tossing  a  desperate  hand  toward  the  duellist. 
'I  have  done  with  you.' 

'Not  yet,  please  the  fates,'  Creagh  said,  in  his  usual  restrained 
tone,  while  Kyrle  Daly  galloped  away  in  the  direction  of  his  father's 
house.  'To-morrow  morning,  perhaps,  you  may  be  enabled  to 
say  so  with  greater  certainty.  He  is  a  fine  young  fellow,  that.  I 
didn't  think  it  was  in  him.  Now,  whom  shall  I  have ?  Connolly? 
Cregan  ?  I  owe  it  to  Connolly,  as  I  performed  the  same  office  for 
him  a  short  time  since;  and  yet  I'd  like  to  pay  old  Cregan  the 
compliment.  Well,  I  can  think  about  it  as  I  ride  along.' 


CHAPTER  XXXH 

HOW    KYRLE    DALY'S    WARLIKE    ARDOUR    WAS    CHECKED    BY   AN 
UNTOWARD    INCIDENT 

A  JOYOUS  piece  of  news  awaited  Kyrle  Daly  at  the  door  of 
his  own  home.  Lowry  Looby  met  him  on  the  avenue,  his 
little  arms  outstretched,  and  his  huge  mouth  expanded  with  an 
expression  of  delighted  astonishment. 

'Oh,  Masther  Kyrle!'  he  said,  'you're  just  come  in  time.  I  was 
goin'  off  for  you.  Hurry  in — hurry  in,  sir!  There's  a  new  little 
sister  within,  waiting  for  you  this  way.' 

'And  your  mistress,  Lowry?'  said  Kyrle,  springing  from  his 
horse,  and  tossing  his  rein  to  the  servant. 

'Finely,  finely,  sir,  thank  heaven.' 

'Thank  heaven,  indeed!'  echoed  Daly,  hurrying  on,  with  a 
Bushed  and  gladdened  face,  toward  the  hall-door.  Everything  of 
self,  his  disappointment,  the  treachery  of  his  friend,  the  loss  of  his 
mistress,  and  his  dilemma  with  the  duellist,  were  all  forgotten,  in 
his  joy  at  the  safety  of  his  mother. 

259 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

The  door  stood  open,  and  the  hall  was  crowded  with  servants, 
children,  and  tenants.  In  the  midst  of  a  hundred  exclamations 
of  wonder,  delight,  and  affection,  which  broke  from  the  lips  of  the 
group,  the  faint  cry  of  a  baby  was  heard,  no  louder  than  the  wail 
of  a  young  kitten.  He  saw  his  father  holding  the  little  stranger 
in  his  arms,  and  looking  in  its  face  with  a  smile,  which  he  was  in 
vain  endeavouring  to  suppress.  The  old  kitchen-maid  stood  on 
his  right,  with  her  apron  to  her  eyes,  crying  for  joy.  One  or  two 
younger  females,  the  wives  of  tenants,  were  on  the  other  side, 
gazing  on  the  red  and  peevish  little  face  of  the  innocent  with  a  smile 
of  maternal  sympathy  and  compassion.  A  fair-haired  girl  clung 
to  her  father's  skirt,  and  petitioned  loudly  to  be  allowed  to  nurse  it 
for  a  moment.  Another  looked  rebukingly  upon  her,  and  told  her 
to  be  silent.  North-east  and  Charles  had  clambered  up  on  a 
chair  to  overlook  the  throng  which  they  could  not  penetrate.  Patcy 
stood  near  the  parlour-door,  jumping  with  all  his  might,  and 
clapping  his  hands  like  one  possessed.  There  appeared  only  one 
discontented  figure  on  the  scene.  It  was  that  of  little  Sally,  hith- 
erto the  pet  and  plaything  of  the  family,  who  stood  in  a  distant 
corner,  with  her  face  turned  in  to  the  wall,  her  lip  pouting,  and 
her  blue  eyes  filling  with  jealous  tears. 

The  moment  Kyrle  made  his  appearance  at  the  door,  the  uproar 
was  redoubled.  'Kyrle!  Kyrle!  Here's  Kyrle!  Kyrle,  look  at 
your  sister!  look  at  your  sister!'  exclaimed  a  dozen  voices,  while 
the  group  at  the  same  moment  opened,  and  admitted  him  to  the 
centre. 

'Poor  little  darling!'  said  Kyrle,  patting  it  on  the  cheek;  'is  it 
not  better  to  take  it  in  out  of  the  cold,  sir  ? ' 

'I  think  so,  Kyrle.     Nurse !    Where's  the  nurse  ? ' 

The  door  of  Mrs.  Daly's  sleeping-chamber  opened,  and  a  woman 
appeared  on  the  threshold  looking  rather  anxious.  She  ran  hastily 
through  the  hall,  got  a  bowl  of  water  in  the  kitchen,  and  hurried 
back  again  into  the  bedroom. 

'Why  doesn't  she  come?'  said  Mr.  Daly.  'The  little  thing  cries 
so,  I  am  afraid  it  is  pinched  by  the  air.' 

'I  suppose  she  is  busy  with  my  Aunt  O'Connell,  and  her  patient, 
yet,'  said  Kyrle. 

A  hurried  trampling  of  feet  was  now  heard  in  the  bedroom,  and 
the  sound  of  rapid  voices  in  anxiety  and  confusion.  A  dead  silence 
sunk  upon  the  hall.  Mr.  Daly  and  his  son  exchanged  a  glance  of 

260 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

thrilling  import.  A  low  moan  was  the  next  sound  that  proceeded 
from  the  room.  The  husband  placed  the  child  in  the  arms  of  the 
old  woman,  and  hurried  to  the  chamber-door.  He  was  met  at  the 
threshold  by  his  sister,  Mrs.  O'Connell  (a  grave-looking  lady  in 
black),  who  placed  her  hand  against  his  breast,  and  said  with  great 
agitation  of  manner: 

'Charles,  you  must  not  come  in  yet.' 

'  Why  so,  Mary  ?  how  is  she  ? ' 

'Winny,'  said  Mrs.  O'Connell,  addressing  the  old  woman  who 
held  the  infant,  'take  the  child  into  the  kitchen  until  the  nurse  can 
come  to  you.' 

'How  is  Sally?'  repeated  the  anxious  husband. 

'You  had  better  go  into  the  parlour,  Charles.  Recollect  yourself 
now,  my  dear  Charles,  remember  your  children — ' 

The  old  man  began  to  tremble.  'Mary,'  he  said,  'why  will  you 
not  answer  me?  How  is  she?' 

'  She  is  not  better,  Charles.' 

'Not  better!' 

'No,  far  otherwise.' 

'Far  otherwise!    Come!  woman,  let  me  pass  into  the  room.' 

'You  must  not,  indeed  you  must  not,  Charles!'  exclaimed  his 
sister,  flinging  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  bursting  into  tears. 
'Kyrle,  Kyrle!  Speak  to  him!' 

Young  Daly  caught  his  father's  arm.  'Well,  well!'  said  the 
latter,  looking  round  with  a  calm  yet  ghastly  smile,  'if  you  are  all 
against  me,  I  must  of  course  submit.' 

'Come  with  me  to  the  parlour,'  said  Mrs.  O'Connell,  'and  I  will 
explain  to  you.' 

She  took  him  by  the  arm,  and  led  with  a  vacant  countenance  and 
passive  demeanour  through  the  silent  and  astonished  group.  They 
entered  the  parlour,  and  the  door  was  closed  by  Mrs.  O'Connell. 
Kyrle  Daly  remained  fixed  like  a  statue,  in  the  same  attitude  in 
which  his  aunt  had  left  him,  and  a  moment  of  intense  and  deep 
anxiety  ensued. 

That  rare  and  horrid  sound,  the  scream  of  an  old  man  in  suffering, 
was  the  first  that  broke  on  the  portentous  stillness.  It  acted  like  a 
spell  upon  the  group  in  the  hall.  They  were  dispersed  in  an  instant. 
The  women  ran  shrieking  in  various  directions.  The  men  looked 
dismayed,  and  uttered  hurried  sentences  of  wonder  and  affright. 
The  children,  terrified  by  the  confusion,  added  their  shrill  and  help- 

261 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

less  wailings  to  the  rest.  The  death-cry  was  echoed  in  the  bedroom, 
in  the  parlour,  in  the  kitchen.  From  every  portion  of  the  dwelling 
the  funeral  shriek  ascended  to  the  heavens,  and  Death  and  Sorrow, 
like  armed  conquerors,  seemed  to  have  possessed  themselves,  by 
sudden  storm,  of  this  little  hold  where  peace  and  happiness  had 
reigned  so  long  and  calmly. 

Kyrle's  first  impulse,  on  hearing  his  father's  voice,  made  him 
rush  to  the  bedroom  of  his  mother.  There  was  no  longer  any 
opposition  at  the  door,  and  he  entered  with  a  throbbing  heart. 
The  nurse  was  crying  aloud,  and  wringing  her  hands  at  the  fireplace. 
Mrs.  Leahy,  the  midwife,  was  standing  near  the  bedside,  with  a 
troubled  and  uneasy  countenance,  evidently  as  much  concerned 
for  the  probable  injury  to  her  own  reputation  as  for  the  affliction 
of  the  family.  Kyrle  passed  them  both,  and  drew  back  the  curtain 
of  the  bed.  His  mother  was  lying  back,  quite  dead,  and  with  an 
expression  of  languid  pain  upon  her  features. 

'I  never  saw  a  case  o'  the  kind  in  my  life,'  muttered  Mrs.  Leahy. 
'I  have  attended  hundreds  in  my  time,  an'  I  never  saw  the  like. 
She  was  sitting  up  in  the  bed,  sir,  as  well  as  I'd  wish  to  see  her,  an' 
I  just  stepped  to  the  fire,  to  warm  a  little  gruel,  when  I  heard  Mrs. 
O'Connell  calling  me.  I  ran  to  the  bed,  an'  sure  there  I  found  her 
dying!  She  just  gave  one  moan,  and 'twas  all  over.  I  never  heard 
of  such  a  case.  All  the  skill  in  the  world  wouldn't  be  any  good  in 
such  a  business.' 

Kyrle  Daly  felt  no  inclination  to  dispute  the  point  with  her.  A 
heavy,  dizzy  sensation  was  in  his  brain,  which  made  his  actions 
and  his  manner  resemble  those  of  a  person  who  walks  in  his  sleep. 
He  knelt  down  to  pray,  but  a  feeling  like  lethargy  disqualified  him 
for  any  exercise  of  devotion.  He  rose  again,  and  walked  listlessly 
into  the  hall. 

Also  at  the  same  moment,  Mr.  Daly  appeared  at  the  parlour- 
door,  followed  by  his  aged  sister,  who  was  still  in  tears.  The  old 
man  glanced  at  his  children,  and  waved  his  hands  before  him. 

'Take  them  from  my  sight!'  he  said  in  a  low  voice;  'let  the 
orphans  be  removed.  Go  now,  my  children,  we  never  shall  be 
happy  here  again.' 

'Charles,  my  dear  Charles!'  said  his  .sister,  in  a  tone  of  gentle 
remonstrance,  while  she  laid  her  hand  upon  his  shoulders. 

'Well,  Mary,  I  will  do  whatever  you  like.  Heaven  knows,  I 
am  not  fit  to  direct  myself,  now.  Ha,  Kyrle,  are  you  returned? 

262 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

I  remember  I  wrote  you  word  to  come  home  to  conclude  the  Christ- 
mas with  us.  I  did  not  think  you  would  have  so  mournful  a  home 
to  come  to.  When  did  you  come  ? ' 

'You  forget,  Charles,  that  you  saw  Kyrle  awhile  ago,'  said  Mrs. 
O'Connell. 

'Did  I  ?  I  had  forgotten  it,'  returned  Mr.  Daly,  tossing  his  head. 
He  extended  his  hand  to  Kyrle,  and  burst  into  tears.  Kyrle  could 
not  do  so.  He  passed  his  father  and  aunt,  and  entered  the  parlour, 
which  was  now  deserted.  He  sat  down  at  a  small  table  before  the 
window,  and  leaning  on  his  elbow,  looked  out  upon  the  face  of  the 
river.  The  wintry  tide  was  flowing  against  a  sharp  and  darkening 
gale,  and  a  number  of  boats  with  close-reefed  sails,  and  black  hulls 
heeling  to  the  blast,  were  beating  through  the  yellow  waves.  The 
sky  was  low  and  dingy,  the  hills  of  Cratloe  rose  on  the  other  side 
in  all  their  bleak  and  barren  wildness  of  attire.  A  harsh  wind 
stirred  the  dry  and  leafless  woodbines  that  covered  the  front  of  the 
cottage,  and  every  object  in  the  landscape  seemed  to  wear  a  char- 
acter of  dreariness  and  discomfort. 

Here  he  remained  for  several  hours  in  the  same  dry  and  stolid 
mood  of  reflection.  Not  a  single  tear,  not  a  single  sound  of  sorrow, 
was  added  by  him  to  the  general  clamour  of  the  household.  He 
never  before  had  been  tried  by  an  occasion  of  this  nature,  and  his 
present  apathy  filled  him  with  alarm  and  astonishment.  He 
listened  to  the  wailings  of  the  women  and  children,  and  he  looked 
on  the  moistened  faces  of  those  who  hurried  past  his  chair  from 
time  to  time,  until  he  began  to  accuse  himself  of  want  of  feeling  and 
affection. 

While  he  sat  thus  silent,  the  door  was  opened,  and  Lowry  Looby 
thrust  in  his  head  to  inform  him  that  the  family  were  assembled  to 
say  a  litany  in  the  other  room.  Kyrle  rose,  and  proceeded  thither 
without  reply  or  question,  while  Lowry,  oppressed  with  grief,  made 
his  retreat  into  the  kitchen.  Here  he  was  met  by  the  nurse,  who 
asked  him  for  some  half-pence,  that  she  may  lay  them,  according 
to  custom,  on  the  lips  and  eyes  of  the  corpse. 

'I  didn't  like,'  she  said,  'to  be  tazing  any  o'  the  family  about  it, 
an'  they  in  throuble.' 

'Surely,  surely,'  said  Lowry,  while  he  searched  his  pockets  for 
the  coin.  '  Ah,  nurse,  so  that's  the  way  ye  let  her  go  between  ye!— 
Oh,  asthora,  Mrs.  Daly,  an'  'tis  I  that  lost  the  good  misthress  in 
you,  this  day!  Soft  and  pleasant  be  your  bed  in  heaven  this  night! 

263 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

An'  s<\it  will.  You  never  refused  to  feed  the  hungry  here,  an'  (.^xl 
won't  refuse  to  feed  you  where  you  are  gone.  You  never  turned 
the  poor  out  o'  your  house  in  this  world,  an'  God  NUMI'I  turn  uni 
out  of  His  house  in  the  other.  Soft  and  pleasant  be  your  bed  in 
heaven  this  night,  Mrs,  Dalyl  VVinny,  eroo,  wasn't  it  \ou  \\as 
telling  me  that  the  misthress's  three  first  childher  died  at  nurse?' 

Old  Winny  was  sitting  by  the  fireside,  dandling  the  now  forgotten 
little  infant  in  her  arms,  and  lulling  it  with  an  ancient  ditty,  of  which 
the  following  beautiful  fragment  formed  the  burthen: 

'Gilli  beg  le  m'  onum  thu 
Gilli  beg  le  m'  chree 

Coth  v.iiu  me  \AMI  lulli  Ivs^. 

'N  heur  ve  thu  more  a  creena."  * 

'They  did,'  she  said,  in  answer  to  Lowry's  question,  'all,  before 
Masther  North-aist,  went  off  ao  fast  as  they  Ivor  wained.' 

'See  that! '  said  Lowry.  ' She  cried — I  wasn't  in  the  family  then, 
but  still  I  know  she  cried  a  pottle  for  every  one  o'  them.  An*  see 
how  it  is  now.  She  has  them  three  little  angels  wilting  to  recave 
her  at  the  gate  of  heaven  this  day.  Here  is  the  money,  nurse,  an* 
I  wish  every  coin  of  it  was  goold  for  the  use  you're  going  to  make 
of  it.' 

The  nurse  left  the  kitchen,  and  Lowry  took  his  seat  upon  the 
settle-bed,  where  he  remained  for  some  time,  looking  downwards, 
and  striking  the  end  of  his  walking-stick  against  the  floor,  gently, 
and  at  regular  intervals.  The  crying  of  the  child  disturbed  his 
meditations,  and  he  frequently  lifted  his  head,  and  stared  with  a 
look  of  stern  remonstrance  at  the  unconscious  innocent. 

'The  Lord  forgive  you,  you  little  disciple!'  said  Lowry,  "tis 
little  you  know  what  harm  you  done  this  day!  Do  all  you  can, 
grow  up  as  fine  as  a  queen,  an'  talk  like  an  angel,  'twill  set  you  to 
fill  up  the  place  o'  the  woman  you  took  away  from  us  this  day. 
Howl  your  tongue,  again,  I  tell  you,  'tis  we  that  have  raison  to  cry, 
an'  not  you.* 

The  news  of  this  unexpected  visitation  became  diffused  throughout 
the  country,  with  a  speed  resembling  that  of  sound  itself.  Friend 
after  friend  dropped  in  as  evening  fell,  and  the  little  parlour  was 

*  '  My  soul's  little  darling  you  are! 
My  heart's  little  darling! 
What  will  I  do  without  my  little  darling, 
When  you're  grown  up  and  old?' 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

crowded  before  midnight.  It  was  a  dreadful  night  without,  the 
same  (it  will  be  remembered)  on  which  Eily  O'Connor  left  the 
cottage  in  the  Gap.  The  thunder  clattered  close  overhead,  the  rain 
fell  down  in  torrents,  and  the  reflection  of  the  frequent  lightning- 
flashes  danced  upon  the  glasses  and  bowl,  around  which  the  com- 
pany were  seated  in  the  parlour.  It  was  yet  too  soon  for  the  report 
to  have  reached  the  ears  of  the  real  friends  of  the  family,  whose 
condolence  might  have  been  more  efficacious  than  that  of  the 
humbler  crowd  of  distant  relatives  and  dependents,  who  were  now 
assembled  in  the  house  of  mourning.  Kyrle  considered  this,  and 
yet  he  could  not  avoid  a  certain  dreary  and  desolate  feeling  as  he 
looked  round  upon  the  throng  of  persons  by  whom  their  hearth 
was  girded.  But  though  he  could  not  receive  from  them  the  delicate 
condolence  which  his  equals  might  have  afforded,  their  sympathy 
was  not  less  cordial  and  sincere. 

The  night  passed  away  in  silence  and  watching.  A  few  con- 
versed in  low  whispers,  and  some  pressed  each  other,  by  signs, 
to  drink;  but  this  courtesy  was  for  the  most  part  declined  by  a 
gathering  of  the  brows,  and  a  shake  of  the  head.  The  grey  and 
wintry  morning  found  the  dwelling  thronged  with  pale,  unwashed, 
and  lengthened  faces.  Some  strayed  out  on  the  little  lawn,  to 
breathe  the  river  air.  Others  thronged  the  room  of  death,  where 
an  early  mass  was  celebrated  for  the  soul  of  the  departed.  At 
intervals,  a  solitary  cry  of  pain  and  grief  was  heard  to  break  from 
some  individual  of  the  crowd,  but  it  was  at  once  repressed  by  the 
guests  with  low  sounds  of  anger  and  surprise.  The  family  were 
silent  in  their  woe,  and  it  was  thought  daring  in  a  stranger  to  usurp 
their  prerogative  of  sorrow. 

The  arrivals  were  more  frequent  in  the  course  of  the  second 
evening,  and  a  number  of  gigs,  curricles,  and  outside  jaunting-cars 
were  laid  by  in  the  yard.  No  circumstance  could  more  fully 
demonstrate  the  estimation  in  which  this  family  was  held,  than  the 
demeanour  of  the  guests  as  they  entered  the  house.  Instead  of 
the  accustomed  ceremonial  which  friends  use  at  meeting,  they 
recognized  each  other  in  silence  and  with  reserve,  as  in  a  house  of 
worship.  Sometimes  a  lifting  of  the  eyelid  and  a  slight  elevation 
of  the  hand  expressed  their  dismay  and  their  astonishment;  and  if 
they  did  exchange  a  whisper,  it  was  only  to  give  expression  to  the 
same  feeling.  'It  was  a  dreadful  loss!'  they  said.  'Poor  man! 
What  will  become  of  the  children?' 

265 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

About  ir'ghtfan  on  the  second  evening,  Kyrie  was  standing  at 
the  window  oi  the  room  in  which  die  corpse  was  laid  out  The 
old  nurse  was  lighting  the  candles  that  were  to  burn  on  either 
side  off  the  death-bed.  The  white  curtains  were  festooned  with 
artificial  roses,  and  a  lew  were  scattered  upon  the  counterpane. 
Kvrie  was  leanfng  with  his  arm  against  the  window-sash,  and 
looking  oat  upon  the  river,  when  Mrs.  O'Connell  laid  her  hand 


'Kyrie/  and  she,  'I  wish  you  would  speak  to  your  father,  and 
•oke  htm  go  to  bed  to-night.  It  would  be  a  great  deal  too  much 
im  to  go  without  rest  the  two  nights  successively.' 

'I  fame  already  qrT*r*"  to  him,  aunt;  and  he  has  promised  me 
thai  he  wfll  retire  early  to  he  room.  We  ought  to  be  all  obliged 
to  you,  aunt,  for  your  attention;  it  is  in  conjunctures  like  this  that 
we  discover  our  real  friends.  I  am  only  afraid  that  you  wfll  surfer 
from  your  exertions.  Could  you  not  nnd  somebody  to  attend  to  the 
company  to-night,  while  you  are  taking  a  little  rest  ?  ' 

'Oh,  I  am  an  old  nurse-tender/  said  Mrs.  O'Connefl.  'I  am 
accustomed  to  sit  up.  Do  not  think  of  me,  Kyrie.' 

She  left  the  room,  and  Kyrie  resumed  his  meditative  posture. 
Up  to  mis  moment,  he  had  not  shed  a  single  tear,  and  the  nurse 
was  watching  Itfm,  from  time  to  time,  with  an  anxious  and  uneasy 
eye.  As  he  remained  looking  out,  an  old  man,  dressed  in  dark 
frieze,  and  with  a  stooping  gait,  appeared  upon  the  little  avenue. 
The  eye  of  Kyrie  rested  on  his  figirre,  as  he  walked  slowry  forward, 
his  aged  limbs  with  a  seasoned  blackthorn  stick.  He 
involuntarily,  to  his  own  mind,  the  picture  of  this  poor  old 
in  his  cottage,  toi^g  his  hat  and  stick,  and  telling  his  family 
that  he  would  'step  over  to  Mrs.  Daly's  wake.'  To  Mrs.  Daly's 
wake!  His  mother,  with  whom  fee  lad  dined  on  the  Christmas 
day  just  past,  in  perfect  health  and  security  !  The  incident  was 
afight,  but  it  struck  the  spring  of  nature  in  his  heart.  He  turned 
from  the  window,  threw  Hm<a>tf  into  a  chair,  extended  his  arms, 
let  Us  head  hang  back,  and  burst  at  once  into  a  load  and  hysterical 

-    _T         -    r 

-  .       -      ~  ".  ". 

In  aa  instant  die  room  was  thronged  with  anxious  figures.    All 
Ms  chair,   with  expressions  of  COBBXUBHB  and 


'Cone  oat,  iu»i  •*•!>  the  air,  Masther  Kyrie! '  said  die  nurse, 
he  added  her  tears  to  his;  'don't,  a'ra  gal!    Don't  now, 

266 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

asthora  machree!  Oh,  tbea,  tis  Kttk  woodher  you  should  fed 
your  loss.' 

'Kyrie!'  said  Mrs.  O'Connefl,  in  a  voice  neariv  as  convulsive  as 
his  whom  she  sought  to  comfort,  'remember  TOOT  father,  Kvrie. 
don't  disturb  him.' 

"Let  me  alone,  oh,  let  me  alone,  Aunt  Mary!'  returned  die 
young  man,  waving  his  hands,  and  turning  away  his  head  in  deep 
suffering.  'I  tell  you  I  shafl  die  if  you  prevent  me.'  And  he 
abandoned  himself  once  move  to  a  convulsive  fit  of  weepins. 

'Let  him  alone,  as  he  says,'  whimpered  old  Winny.  *'M  sore 
I  thought  it  wasn't  natural  he  should  keep  it  on  his  heart  so  Ina^r 
It  will  do  him  good.  Oh,  vo,  vo!  it  is  a  frightful  thing  to  hear  a 
man  crving!' 

Suddenly  Mr.  Daly  appeared  amid  the  group.  He  walked  up  to 
Eyrie's  chair,  and  took  him  by  die  arm.  The  latter  checked  his 
feelings  on  the  instant,  and  arose  with  a  calm  and  ready  obedience. 
As  they  passed  the  foot  of  the  bed,  the  father  and  son  paused,  as  if 
by  a  consent  of  intelligence.  They  eirhangtd  one  silent  glance, 
and  then,  flinging  themselves  each  on  die  other  s  neck,  they  wept 
long,  loudly,  and  convulsively  together.  There  was  ma  one  now  to 
interfere.  No  one  dared  at  this  moment  to  assume  die  office  of 
comforter,  and  every  individual  acted  die  part  of  a  principal  in  die 
;.::: . ;: . .::.  .  ~v  ^-;~ -.-...  :. .".  :  -  ~  ~ .;;-.  >-..:-.:  :r  ~  :~-_  r. •;--.. 

was  once  more  echoed  in  die  other  parts  of  die  dacffine,  and  die 
winds  bore  it  to  die  ear  of  Hardress  Cregan,  as  be  approached  die 
entrance  to  the  avenue. 


CHAPTER 

HOW  •CTA»i»«R  MET  A  FETEXD  OF  ETLY*S  AT  THE  WAKE 


HE  entered  die  house  widi  d»at  species  of  rubjar  resolution 
which  a  peraoBfeels  who  is  cooscioasof  deserving  a  repofae, 

and  determined  to  outface  it.    But  his  bravery  was  whoily  •tedbas. 

PoorKyrkwasbus>-»>wwidic>d»erdKwghtsdiandio6eofCregan'ls 

tmcbery. 

He  was  shown  into  die  parlour,  in  which  die  giMfliBiia  were 
sorted  round  die  fire,  and  listening  to  die 

-:- 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

yet  had  hardly  subsided  in  the  distant  room.  The  table  was 
covered  with  decanters  of  wine,  bowls  of  whiskey-punch,  and  long 
glasses.  A  large  turf-fire  blazed  in  the  grate,  and  Lowry  Looby 
was  just  occupied  in  placing  on  the  table  a  pair  of  plated  candle- 
sticks almost  as  long  as  himself.  Mr.  Barnaby  Cregan,  Mr. 
Connolly,  Dr.  Leake,  and  several  other  gentlemen  were  seated 
at  one  side  of  the  fire.  On  the  other  stood  a  vacant  chair  from 
which  Mr.  Daly  had  been  summoned  a  few  minutes  before,  by  the 
voice  of  his  son  in  suffering.  A  little  farther  back,  on  a  row  of 
chairs  which  was  placed  along  the  wall,  the  children  were  seated; 
some  of  them  with  countenances  touchingly  dejected,  and  a  few  of 
the  very  youngest  appearing  still  more  touchingly  unconscious  of 
their  misfortune.  The  remainder  of  the  circle  (which,  though 
widened  to  the  utmost  limit,  completely  filled  the  room)  consisted 
of  the  more  fortuneless  connections  of  the  family,  their  tradesmen, 
and  some  of  the  more  comfortable  class  of  tenants.  One  or  two 
persons  took  upon  themselves  the  office  of  attending  the  company, 
supplying  them  with  liquor,  and  manufacturing  punch,  according 
as  the  fountain  was  exhausted. 

When  Hardress  appeared  at  the  door,  his  eye  met  that  of  Con- 
nolly, who  beckoned  to  him  in  silence,  and  made  room  for  him 
upon  his  own  chair.  He  took  his  place,  and  looked  round  for  some 
member  of  the  family.  It  was  perhaps  rather  to  his  relief,  than 
disappointment,  that  he  could  not  discern  Kyrle  Daly,  or  his 
father,  among  the  company. 

Shortly  afterwards,  two  or  three  clergymen  made  their  appear- 
ance, and  were  with  difficulty  accommodated  with  places.  While 
Hardress  was  occupied  in  perusing  the  countenances  of  these  last, 
he  felt  his  arm  grasped,  and,  turning  round,  received  a  nod  of 
recognition  and  a  hand-shake  (such  as  was  then  in  fashion)  from 
Dr.  Leake. 

'A  dreadful  occasion  this,  doctor,'  whispered  Hardress. 

The  doctor  shut  his  eyes,  knit  his  brows,  thrust  out  his  lips,  and 
shook  his  head,  with  an  air  of  deep  reproof.  Laying  his  hand 
familiarly  on  Hardress's  knee,  and  looking  fixedly  hi  his  face,  he 
said,  in  a  low  whisper: 

'My  dear  Cregan,  'tis  a  warning — 'tis  a  warning  to  the  whole 
country.  This  is  what  comes  of  employing  unscientific  persons.' 

Some  whispering  conversation  now  proceeded  amongst  the  guests, 
which,  however,  was  suddenly  interrupted  by  the  appearance  of 

268 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

Kyrle  Daly  at  the  parlour-door.  He  walked  across  the  room  with 
that  port  of  mournful  ease  and  dignity  which  men  are  apt  to  exhibit 
under  any  deep  emotion,  and  took  possession  of  the  vacant  chair 
before  alluded  to.  Not  forgetful,  in  his  affliction,  of  the  courtesy 
of  a  host,  he  looked  around  to  see  what  new  faces  had  entered  during 
his  absence.  He  recognised  the  clergymen,  and  addressed  them 
with  a  calm,  yet  cordial  politeness. 

'I  hope,'  he  said,  smiling  courteously,  yet  sadly,  as  he  looked 
round  upon  the  circle — '  I  hope  the  gentlemen  will  excuse  my  father 
for  his  absence.  He  was  anxious  to  return,  indeed;  but  I  pre- 
vented! him.  I  thought  a  second  night's  watching  would  have  been 
too  severe  a  trial  of  his  strength.' 

A  general  murmur  of  assent  followed  this  appeal,  and  the  speaker, 
resting  his  forehead  on  his  hand,  was  silent  for  an  instant. 

'I  wish  you  would  follow  his  example,  Kyrle,'  said  Mr.  Cregan. 
'I  am  sure  we  can  all  take  care  of  ourselves,  and  you  must  want 
rest.' 

'It  is  madness,'  said  Connolly,  'for  the  living  to  injure  their 
health  when  it  can  be  of  no  possible  use.' 

'Pray  do  not  speak  of  it,'  said  Kyrle;  'if  I  felt  in  the  least  degree 
fatigued,  I  should  not  hesitate.  Lowry,'  he  added,  calling  to  the 
servant,  who  started,  and  turned  round  on  his  heel  with  a  serious 
eagerness  that  would  at  any  other  time  have  been  comic  in  its  effect, 
'Lowry,  will  you  tell  Mrs.  O'Connell  to  send  in  some  tea?  Some 
of  the  gentlemen  may  wish  to  take  it.' 

Lowry  disappeared,  and  Kyrle  relapsed  into  his  attitude  of 
motionless  dejection.  A  long  silence  ensued,  the  guests  conversing 
only  by  secret  whispers,  signs  and  gestures,  and  significant  contor- 
tions of  the  face.  It  was  once  more  broken  by  Kyrle,  who,  looking 
at  Mr.  Cregan,  said,  in  a  restrained  and  steady  voice: 

'Has  Hardress  returned  from  Killarney  yet,  Mr.  Cregan?' 

Hardress  felt  his  blood  rush  through  his  veins,  like  that  of  a 
convict,  when  he  hears  from  the  bench  those  fearful  words,  'Bring 
him  up  for  judgment!'  He  made  a  slight  motion  in  his  chair, 
while  his  father  answered  the  question  of  Kyrle. 

'Hardress  is  here,'  said  Mr.  Cregan;  'he  came  in  while  you  were 

out.' 

'Here!  Is  he?  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  myself,'  said  Kyrle, 
rising  slowly  from  his  chair,  and  meeting  his  old  friend  halfway 
with  an  extended  hand.  They  looked,  to  the  eyes  of  the  guests, 

269 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

pale,  cold,  and  passionless;  like  two  animated  corpses.  'But 
Hardress,'  continued  Kyrle,  with  a  ghastly  lip,  'will  excuse  me,  I 
hope.  Did  you  leave  Mrs.  Cregan  well  ? ' 

'Quite  well,'  muttered  Hardress,  with  a  confused  bow. 

'I  am  glad  of  it,'  returned  Kyrle,  in  the  same  tone  of  calm, 
dignified,  and  yet  mournful  politeness.  'You  are  fortunate, 
Hardress,  hi  that.  If  I  had  met  you  yesterday,  I  would  have 
answered  a  similar  question  with  the  same  confidence.  And  see 
how  short — ' 

A  sudden  passion  choked  his  utterance,  he  turned  aside,  and 
both  the  young  men  resumed  their  seats  in  silence. 

There  was  something  to  Hardress  infinitely  humiliating  in  this 
brief  interview.  The  manner  of  Kyrle  Daly,  as  it  regarded  him, 
was  merely  indifferent.  It  was  not  cordial,  for  then  it  must  necessa- 
rily have  been  hypocritical,  but  neither  could  he  discern  the  slight- 
est indication  of  a  resentful  feeling.  He  saw  that  Kyrle  Daly  was 
perfectly  aware  of  his  treason,  he  saw  that  his  esteem  and  friendship 
were  utterly  extinct,  and  he  saw,  likewise,  that  he  had  formed  a 
resolution  of  never  exchanging  with  him  a  word  of  explanation  or 
reproach,  and  of  treating  him  in  future  as  an  indifferent  acquaint- 
ance, who  could  not  be  esteemed,  and  ought  to  be  avoided.  This 
calm  avoidance  was  the  stroke  that  cut  him  to  the  quick. 

Lowry  now  entered  with  tea,  and  a  slight  movement  took  place 
amongst  the  guests.  Many  left  then:  places,  and  when  order  was 
restored,  Hardress  found  himself  placed  between  two  strangers,  of 
a  rank  more  humble  than  his  own.  He  continued  to  sip  his  tea 
for  some  time  in  silence,  when  a  slight  touch  on  his  arm  made  him 
turn  round.  He  beheld  on  his  right,  an  old  man  dressed  in  dark 
frieze,  with  both  hands  crossed  on  the  head  of  his  walking-stick, 
his  chin  resting  upon  those,  and  his  eyes  fixed  upon  Hardress  with 
an  air  of  settled  melancholy.  It  was  the  same  old  man  whose 
appearance  on  the  avenue  had  produced  so  deep  an  effect  on  Kyrle 
Daly — Mihil  O'Connor,  the  ropemaker. 

'I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,'  he  said  gently,  'but  I  think  I  have  seen 
your  face  somewhere  before  now.  Did  you  ever  spend  an  evening 
at  Garryowen  ? ' 

If,  as  he  turned  on  his  chair,  the  eye  of  Hardress  had  encountered 
that  of  the  corpse  which  now  lay  shrouded  and  coffined  in  the  other 
room,  he  could  not  have  experienced  a  more  sudden  revulsion  of 
affright.  He  did  not  answer  the  question  of  the  old  man  (his 

270 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

father-in-law!  the  plundered  parent!),  but  remained  staring  and 
gaping  on  him  in  silence. 

Old  Mihil  imagined  that  he  was  at  a  loss,  and  labouring  to  bestir 
his  memory.  'Don't  you  remember,  sir,'  he  added,  'on  a  Patrick's 
Eve,  saving  an  old  man  and  a  girl  from  a  parcel  o'  the  boys  in 
Mungret  Street  ? ' 

'I  do,'  answered  Hardress,  in  a  low  and  hoarse  voice. 

'I  thought  I  remembered  the  face,  and  the  make/  returned 
Mihil.  'Well,  sir,  I'm  that  same  ould  man,  and  many  is  the  time 
since  that  night  that  I  wished  (if  it  was  heaven's  will)  that  both  she 
an'  I  had  died  that  night,  upon  that  spot  together.  I  wished  that 
when  you  seen  us  that  time,  you  passed  us  by,  and  never  riz  a  hand 
to  save  us, — always  if  it  was  heaven's  will,  for  I'm  submissive,  the 
will  of  heaven  be  done,  for  I'm  a  great  sinner,  and  I  deserved  great 
punishment,  and  great  punishment  I  got — great  punishment  that's 
laid  on  my  old  heart  this  night!' 

'I  pity  you!'  muttered  Hardress,  involuntarily — 'I  pity  you, 
although  you  may  not  think  it.' 

'  For  what  ? '  exclaimed  the  old  man,  still  in  a  whisper,  elevating 
his  person  and  planting  his  stick  upright  upon  the  floor.  'For 
what  would  you  pity  me?  You  know  nothing  about  me,  man, 
that  you'd  pity  me  for.  If  I  was  to  tell  you  my  story  you'd  pity  me, 
I  know,  for  there  isn't  that  man  living,  with  a  heart  in  his  breast, 
that  wouldn't  feel  it.  But  I  won't  tell  it  to  you,  sir.  I'm  tired  of 
telling  it,  that's  what  I  am.  I'm  tired  of  talking  of  it,  and  thinking 
of  it,  and  draming  of  it,  an'  I  wisht  I  was  in  my  grave,  to  be  done 
with  it  forever  for  a  story — always,  always,'  he  added,  lifting  his 
eyes  in  devout  fear —  'always,  if  it  was  heaven's  will.  Heaven 
forgi'  me!  I  say  what  I  oughtn't  to  say,  sometimes,  thinken'  of  it.' 

'I  understand,'  muttered  Hardress,  incoherently.  The  old  man 
did  not  hear  him. 

'An'  still,  for  all,'  Mihil  added,  after  a  pause,  'as  I  spoke  of  it 
at  all,  I'll  tell  you  something  of  it.  That  girl  you  saw  that  night 
with  me — she  was  a  beautiful  little  girl,  sir,  wasn't  she  ? ' 

'Do  you  think  so?'  Hardress  murmured,  still  without  knowing 
what  he  said. 

'Do  I  think  so?'  echoed  the  father  with  a  grim  smile.  'It's 
little  matter  what  her  father  thought.  The  world  knew  her  for  a 
beauty,  but  what  was  the  good  of  it?  She  left  me  there,  afther  that 
night,  an'  went  off  with  a  sthranger.' 

271 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

Hardress  again  said  something,  but  it  resembled  only  the  deliri- 
ous niurmurs  of  a  person  on  the  rack. 

'Oh,  vo,  Eily!  that  night,  that  woeful  night!'  continued  the  old 
man.  'I'm  ashamed  o'  myself,  to  be  always  this  way,  like  an  ould 
woman,  moaning  and  ochoning  among  the  neighbours,  like  an 
ould  goose  that  would  be  cackling  afther  the  flock,  or  a  fool  of  a 
little  bird,  whistling  upon  a  bough  of  a  summer  evening,  afther 
the  nest  is  robbed.' 

'How  close  this  room  is!'  exclaimed  Hardress;  'the  heat  is 
suffocating.' 

'I  thought  at  first,'  continued  Mihil,  'that  it  is  dead  she  was,  but 
a  letther  came  to  a  neighbour  o'  mine,  to  let  me  know  that  she  was 
alive  and  hearty.  I  know  how  it  was.  Some  villyan  that  enticed 
her  off.  I  sent  the  neighbour  westwards  to  look  afther  her,  an'  I 
thought  he'd  be  back  to-day,  but  he  isn't.  I  tould  him  to  call  at 
my  brother's,  the  priest's,  in  Castle  Island.  Shure,  he  writes  me 
word,  he  seen  her  himself  of  a  Christmas  Day  last,  an'  that  she 
tould  him  she  was  married,  and  coming  home  shortly.  Ayeh,  I'm 
afraid  the  villyan  decaived  her,  an  that  she's  not  rightly  married; 
for  I  made  it  my  business  to  inquire  of  every  priest  in  town  and 
counthry,  an'  none  of  'em  could  tell  me  a  word  about  it.  She 
decaived  me,  and  I'm  afeered  he's  decaiven'  her.  There  let  him! 
there  let  him!  But  there's  a  throne  in  heaven,  and  there's  One 
upon  it,  an'  that  man,  an'  my  daughter  and  I,  will  stand  together 
before  that  throne  one  day!' 

'Let  me  go!'  cried  Hardress,  aloud,  and  breaking  from  the 
circle  with  violence,  'let  me  go!  let  me  go! — can  any  one  bear 
this?' 

Such  an  incident,  amid  the  general  silence,  and  on  this  solemn 
occasion,  could  not  fail  to  produce  a  degree  of  consternation 
amongst  the  company.  Kyrle  looked  up  with  an  expression  of 
strong  feeling.  'What's  the  matter?'  'What  has  happened?' 
was  asked  by  several  voices.  'It  is  highly  indecorous.'  'It  is  very 
unfeeling,'  was  added  by  many  more. 

Hardress  stayed  not  to  hear  their  observations,  but  struggled 
through  the  astonished  crowd,  and  reached  the  door.  Kyrls,  after 
looking  in  vain  for  an  explanation,  once  more  leaned  down,  with 
his  forehead  on  his  hand,  and  remained  silent. 

'He's  a  good  young  gentleman,'  said  Mihil  O'Connor,  looking 
after  Hardress,  and  addressing  those  who  sat  around  him.  'I  was 

272 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

telling  him  the  story  of  my  daughter.    He's  a  good  young  gentleman 
— he  has  great  nature.' 

The  unfortunate  Hardress,  in  the  meantime,  strayed  onward 
through  the  hall  of  the  cottage,  with  the  feeling  of  a  man  who  has 
just  escaped  from  the  hands  of  justice.  He  entered  another  room, 
appropriated  to  the  female  guests,  where  Mrs.  O'Connell  presided 
at  the  tea-table.  The  gradation  of  ranks  in  this  apartment  was 
similar  to  that  in  the  other,  but  the  company  was  not  quite  so 
scrupulous  in  the  maintenance  of  silence.  A  general  and  very 
audible  whispering  conversation  was  carried  on,  in  which  a  few 
young  gentlemen,  who  were  sprinkled  among  the  ladies,  took  no 
inactive  part.  A  hush  of  some  moments'  duration  took  place  on 
the  entrance  of  Hardress,  and  a  hundred  curious  eyes  were  turned 
on  his  figure.  His  extreme  paleness,  the  wildness  of  his  eyes,  and 
the  ghastly  attempt  at  courtesy  which  he  made  as  he  entered, 
occasioned  a  degree  of  general  surprise.  He  passed  on,  and  took 
his  seat  by  the  side  of  Mrs.  O'Connell,  who,  like  Mihil,  placed  his 
agitation  to  the  account  of  sympathy,  and  entered  him  at  once  upon 
her  list  of  favourites. 

A  number  of  young  ladies  were  seated  on  the  right  of  this  good 
lady,  and  at  a  distance  from  the  long  table,  round  which  were 
placed  a  number  of  females  of  an  humbler  rank,  dressed  out  in  all 
their  finery,  and  doing  honour  to  Mrs.  O'Connell's  tea  and  coffee. 
One  or  two  young  gentlemen  were  waiting  on  the  small  circle  of 
ladies  who  sat  apart  near  the  fire,  with  tea,  cakes,  toast,  &c.  The 
younger  of  the  two,  a  handsome  lad,  of  a  cultivated  figure,  seemed 
wholly  occupied  in  showing  off  his  grace  and  gallantry.  The  other, 
a  grave  wag,  strove  to  amuse  the  ladies  by  paying  a  mock  ceremo- 
nious attention  to  the  tradesmen's  wives  and  daughters  at  the  other 
side  of  the  fire,  and  to  amuse  himself  by  provoking  the  ladies  to 
laugh. 

Revolutions  in  private,  as  in  public  life,  are  occasions  which  call 
into  action  the  noblest  and  meanest  principles  of  our  nature — the 
extremes  of  generosity  and  selfishness.  As  Lowry  Looby  took  away 
the  tea-service,  he  encountered  in  the  hall  and  kitchen  a  few  sullen 
and  discontented  faces.  Some  complained  that  they  had  not  ex- 
perienced the  slightest  attention  since  their  arrival,  and  others 
declared  they  had  not  got  'as  much  as  one  cup  o'  tay.' 

'  Why  then,  mend  ye ! '  said  Lowry, '  why  didn't  ye  call  for  it  ?  Do 
ye  think  people  that's  in  throuble  that  way,  has  nothing  else  to  do 

273 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

but  to  be  thinking  of  ye,  an'  of  ye'r  aiting  an'  drinking?  What 
talk  it* is!  There's  people  in  this  world,  I  b'lieve,  that  thinks  worse 
of  their  own  little  finger,  than  of  the  lives  an'  fortunes  of  all  the 
rest.' 

So  saying,  he  took  a  chair  before  the  large  kitchen  fire,  which, 
like  those  in  the  two  other  apartments,  was  surrounded  by  a  new 
class  of  watchers.  On  a  wooden  form  at  one  side  were  seated  the 
female  servants  of  the  house,  and  opposite  to  them  the  hearse- 
driver,  the  mutes,  the  drivers  of  two  or  three  hack-carriages,  and 
one  or  two  of  the  gentlemen's  servants.  The  table  was  covered 
with  bread,  jugs  of  punch,  and  Cork  porter.  A  few,  exhausted 
by  the  preceding  night's  watching,  and  overpowered  by  the  heat 
of  the  fire,  were  lying  asleep  in  various  postures,  on  the  settle-bed 
at  the  farther  end. 

"Twill  be  a  great  funeral,'  said  the  hearse-driver,  laying  aside 
the  mug  of  porter,  from  which  he  had  just  taken  a  refreshing 
draught. 

'If  it  isn't,  it  ought,'  said  Lowry;  'they're  people,  sir,  that  are 
well  known  in  the  counthry.' 

'Surely,  surely,'  said  one  of  the  hack-coachmen,  taking  a  pipe 
from  the  corner  of  his  mouth, '  an'  well  liked,  too,  by  all  accounts.' 

A  moan  from  the  females  gave  a  mournful  assent  to  this 
proposition. 

'Ah,  she  was  a  queen  of  a  little  woman,'  said  Lowry.  'She  was 
too  good  for  this  world.  O  vo!  where's  the  use  o'  talking  at  all? 
Sure  'twas  only  a  few  days  since,  I  was  salting  the  bacon  at  the 
table  over,  an'  she  was  standing  a-near  me,  knitting.  "I'm  afraid, 
Lowry,"  says  she,  "we  won't  find  that  bacon  enough.  I'm  sorry 
I  didn't  get  another  o'  them  pigs  killed."  Little  she  thought  that 
time,  that  they'd  outlast  herself.  She  never  lived  to  see  'em  in 
pickle!' 

A  pause  of  deep  affliction  followed  this  speech,  which  was  once 
more  broken  by  the  hearse-driver. 

'The  grandest  funeral,'  said  he,  'that  ever  I  see  in  my  life,  was 
that  of  the  Marquis  of  Watherford,  father  to  the  present  man.  It 
was  a  sighth  for  a  king.  There  was  six  men  marching  out  before 
the  hearse,  with  goold  sticks  in  their  hands,  an'  as  much  black  silk 
about  'em  as  a  lady.  The  coffin  was  covered  all  over  with  black 
velvet  and  goold,  an'  there  was  his  name  above  upon  the  top  of  it, 
on  a  great  goold  plate  intirely,  that  was  shining  like  the  sun.  I 

274 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

never  seen  such  a  sighth  before  nor  since.  There  was  forty-six 
carriages  afther  the  hearse,  an'  every  one  of  'em  belonging  to  a 
lord,  or  an  estated  man,  at  the  laste.  It  flogged  all  the  shows  I 
ever  see  since  I  was  able  to  walk  the  ground.' 

The  eyes  of  the  whole  party  were  fixed  in  admiration  upon  the 
speaker,  while  he  made  the  above  oration,  with  much  importance 
of  look  and  gesture.  Lowry,  who  felt  that  poor  Mrs.  Daly's 
funeral  must  necessarily  shrink  into  insignificance,  in  comparison 
with  this  magnificent  description,  endeavoured  to  diminish  its  effect 
upon  the  imaginations  of  the  company  by  a  few  philosophical 
remarks. 

'  'Twas  a  great  funeral  surely,'  he  began. 

'Great!'  exclaimed  the  hearse-driver.  'It  was  worth  walking 
to  Watherford  to  see  it.' 

'Them  that  has  money,'  added  Lowry,  'can  aisily  find  mains  to 
sport  it.  An'  still,  for  all,  now,  sir,  if  a  man  was  to  look  into  the 
rights  o'  the  thing,  what  was  the  good  of  all  that?  What  was  the 
good  of  it,  for  him  that  was  in  the  hearse,  or  for  them  that  wor  afther 
it?  The  Lord  save  us,  it  isn't  what  goold  or  silver  they  had  upon 
their  hearses,  they'll  be  axed  where  they  are  going;  only  what  use 
they  made  of  the  goold  an'  silver  that  was  given  them  in  this  world. 
'Tisn't  how  many  carriages  was  afther  'em,  but  how  many  good 
actions  went  before  'em;  nor  how  they  were  buried,  they'll  be  axed, 
but  how  they  lived.  Them  are  the  questions,  the  Lord  save  us, 
that'll  be  put  to  us  all,  one  day;  and  them  are  the  questions  that 
Mrs.  Daly  could  answer  this  night,  as  well  as  the  Marquis  of  Wather- 
ford, or  any  other  lord  or  marquis  in  the  land.' 

The  appeal  was  perfectly  successful:  the  procession  of  the 
marquis,  the  gold  sticks,  the  silks,  the  velvet,  and  the  forty-six 
carriages  were  forgotten;  the  hearse-driver  resumed  his  mug  of 
porter,  and  the  remainder  of  the  company  returned  to  their  attitudes 
of  silence  and  dejection. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

HOW  THE  WAKE  CONCLUDED 


I 


T  was  intended  that  the  funeral  should  proceed  at  daybreak. 
Towards  the  close  of  a  hurried  breakfast,  which  the  guests 


275 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

took  .by  candle-light,  the  tinkling  of  a  small  silver  bell  summoned 
them  to  an  early  mass,  which  was  being  celebrated  in  the  room  of 
the  dead.  As  Hardress  obeyed  its  call,  he  found  the  apartment 
already  crowded,  and  a  number  of  domestics  and  other  dependents 
of  the  family  kneeling  at  the  door  and  in  the  hall.  The  low  murmur 
of  the  clergyman's  voice  was  only  interrupted  occasionally  by  a 
faint  moan,  or  a  short,  thick  sob,  heard  amid  the  crowd.  The 
density  of  the  press  around  the  door  prevented  Hardress  from 
ascertaining  the  individuals  from  whom  those  sounds  of  affliction 
proceeded. 

When  the  ceremony  had  concluded,  and  when  the  room  became 
less  thronged,  he  entered,  and  took  his  place  near  the  window. 
There  was  some  whispering  between  Mrs.  O'Connell,  his  father, 
Hepton  Connolly,  and  one  or  two  other  friends  of  the  family. 
They  were  endeavouring  to  contrive  some  means  of  withdrawing 
Kyrle  and  his  father  from  the  apartment,  while  that  most  mournful 
crisis  of  this  domestic  calamity  was  carried  on,  the  removal  of  the 
coffin  from  the  dwelling  of  its  perished  inmate.  Mr.  Daly  seemed 
to  have  some  suspicion  of  an  attempt  of  this  kind,  for  he  had  taken 
his  seat  close  by  the  bed's  head,  and  sat  erect  in  his  chair  with  a 
look  of  fixed  and  even  gloomy  resolution.  Kyrle  was  standing  at 
the  head  of  the  coffin,  his  arms  crossed  upon  the  bed,  his  face 
buried  between  them,  and  his  whole  frame  as  motionless  as  that 
of  one  in  a  deep  slumber.  The  priest  was  unvesting  himself  at  the 
table  near  the  window,  which  had  been  elevated  a  little,  so  as  to 
serve  for  an  altar.  The  clerk  was  at  his  side,  placing  the  chalice, 
altar  cloths,  and  vestments  in  a  large  ticken  bag  according  as  they 
were  folded.  A  few  old  women  still  remained  kneeling  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed,  rocking  their  persons  from  side  to  side,  and  often  striking 
their  bosoms  with  the  cross  of  the  long  rosary.  The  candles  were 
now  almost  burnt  down  and  smouldering  in  their  sockets,  and  the 
winter  dawn,  which  broke  through  the  open  window,  was  gradually 
overmastering  their  yellow  and  imperfect  light. 

'Kyrle,'  said  Hepton  Connolly,  in  a  whisper,  touching  the  arm 
of  the  afflicted  son,  'come  with  me  into  the  parlour  for  an  instant. 
I  want  to  speak  to  you.' 

Kyrle  raised  his  head,  and  stared  on  the  speaker,  like  one  who 
suddenly  wakes  from  a  long  sleep.  Connolly  took  him  by  the 
sleeve  with  an  urgent  look,  and  led  him,  altogether  passive,  out 
of  the  apartment. 

276 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

Mr.  Daly  saw  the  manoeuvre,  but  he  did  not  appear  to  notice  it. 
He  kept  the  same  rigid,  set  position,  and  looked  straight  forwards 
with  the  same  determined  and  unwinking  glance,  as  if  he  feared 
that  the  slightest  movement  might  unhinge  his  resolution. 

'Daly,'  said  Mr.  Cregan,  advancing  to  his  side,  'Mr.  Neville, 
the  clergyman,  wishes  to  speak  with  you  in  the  middle  room.' 

'I  will  not  leave  this!'  said  the  widower,  in  a  low,  short,  and 
muttering  voice,  while  his  eyes  filled  up  with  a  gloomy  fire,  and  his 
manner  resembled  that  of  a  tigress,  who  suspects  some  invasion  of 
her  young,  but  endeavours  to  conceal  that  suspicion  until  the  first 
stroke  is  made.  'I  will  not  stir  from  this,  sir,  if  you  please.' 

Mr.  Cregan  turned  away  at  once,  and  cast  a  desponding  look  at 
Mrs.  O'Connell.  That  lady  lowered  her  eyelids  significantly,  and 
glanced  at  the  door.  Mr.  Cregan  at  once  retired,  beckoning  to  his 
son  that  he  might  follow  him. 

Mrs.  O'Connell  now  took  upon  herself  the  task  which  had 
proved  so  complete  a  failure  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Cregan.  She 
leaned  over  her  brother's  chair,  laid  her  hand  on  his,  and  said  in 
an  earnest  voice: 

'Charles,  will  you  come  with  me  to  the  parlour  for  one  moment?' 

'I  will  not,'  replied  Mr.  Daly,  hi  the  same  hoarse  tone — 'I  will 
not  go,  ma'am,  if  you  please.' 

Mrs.  O'Connell  pressed  his  hand,  and  stooped  over  his  shoulder. 
'Charles,'  she  continued  with  increasing  earnestness,  'will  you 
refuse  me  this  request?' 

'If  you  please,'  said  the  bereaved  husband,  'I  will  not  go, — 
indeed,  ma'am,  I  won't  stir!' 

'Now  is  the  time,  Charles,  to  show  that  you  can  be  resigned.  I 
feel  for  you,  indeed  I  do,  but  you  must  deny  yourself.  Remember 
your  duty  to  heaven,  and  to  your  children,  and  to  yourself.  Come 
with  me,  my  dear  Charles!' 

The  old  man  trembled  violently,  turned  round  on  his  chair,  and 
fixed  his  eyes  upon  his  sister. 

'Mary,'  said  he  with  a  broken  voice,  'this  is  the  last  half-hour 
that  I  shall  ever  spend  with  Sally  in  this  world,  and  do  not  take  me 
from  her.' 

'I  would  not,'  said  the  good  lady,  unable  to  restrain  her  tears, 
'I  would  not,  my  dear  Charles.  But  you  know  her  well.  You  know 
how  she  would  act  if  she  were  in  your  place.  Act  that  way,  Charles, 
and  that  is  the  greatest  kindness  you  can  show  to  Sally  now.' 

277 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

'Ta,ke  me  where  you  please,'  cried  the  old  man  stretching  out 
his  arms,  and  bursting  into  a  fit  of  convulsive  weeping.  'Oh, 
Sally,'  he  exclaimed,  turning  round  and  stretching  his  arms  towards 
the  coffin,  as  he  reached  the  door,  'oh,  Sally,  is  this  the  way  that 
we  are  parted,  after  all  ?  This  day,  I  thought  your  friends  would 
have  been  visiting  you  and  your  babe  in  health  and  happiness.  They 
are  come  to  visit  you,  my  darling,  but  it  is  in  your  coffin,  not  in  your 
bed,  they  find  you!  They  are  come,  not  to  your  babe's  christening, 
but  to  your  own  funeral.  For  the  last  time  now,  good-bye,  my 
darling  Sally.  It  is  not  now  to  say  good-bye  for  an  hour,  or 
good-bye  for  a  day,  or  for  a  week — but  forever  and  forever.  God 
be  with  you,  Sally!  Forever  and  forever!  They  are  little  words, 
Mary!'  he  added,  turning  to  his  weeping  sister,  'but  there's  a  deal 
of  grief  in  them.  Well,  now,  Sally,  my  days  are  done  for  this  world. 
It  is  time  for  me,  now,  to  think  of  a  better  life.  I  am  satisfied.  Far 
be  it  from  me  to  murmur.  My  life  was  too  happy,  Mary,  and  I 
was  becoming  too  fond  of  it.  This  will  teach  me  to  despise  a  great 
many  things  that  I  valued  highly  until  yesterday,  and  to  warn  my 
children  to  despise  them  likewise.  I  believe,  Mary,  if  everything 
in  this  world  went  on  as  we  could  wish,  it  might  tempt  us  to  forget 
that  there  was  another  before  us.  This  is  my  comfort — and  it 
must  be  my  comfort  now  forevermore.  Take  me  where  you  please 
now,  Mary,  and  let  them  take  her,  too,  wherever  they  desire.  Oh, 
Sally,  my  poor  love,  it  is  not  to-day,  nor  to-morrow,  nor  the  day  after 
that  I  shall  feel  your  loss,  but  when  weeks  and  months  are  gone  by, 
and  when  I  am  sitting  all  alone  by  the  fireside;  or  when  I  am  talking 
of  you  to  my  orphan  children.  It  is  then,  Sally,  that  I  shall  feel 
what  happened  yesterday!  That  is  the  time  when  I  shall  think  of 
you,  and  of  all  our  happy  days,  until  my  heart  is  breaking  in  my 
bosom!'  These  last  sentences  the  old  man  spoke  standing  erect, 
with  his  hands  clenched  and  trembling  above  his  head,  his  eyes 
filled  up,  and  fixed  on  the  coffin,  and  every  feature  swollen  and 
quivering  with  the  strong  emotion.  As  he  concluded,  he  sank, 
exhausted  by  the  passionate  lament,  upon  the  shoulder  of  his 
sister. 

Almost  at  the  same  instant,  little  Sally  came  peeping  in  at  the 
door,  with  a  face  of  innocent  wonder  and  timidity.  Mrs.  O'Connell, 
with  the  quick  feeling  of  a  woman,  took  advantage  of  the  incident 
to  create  a  diversion  in  the  mind  of  her  brother. 

'My  dear  Charles,'  she  said,  'do  try  and  conquer  this  dejection. 

278 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

You  will  not  be  so  lonely  as  you  think.  .Look  there,  Charles;  you 
have  got  a  Sally  still  to  care  for  you.' 

The  aged  father  glanced  a  quick  eye  around  him,  and  met  the 
sweet  and  simple  gaze  of  the  little  innocent,  upturned  to  seek 
his  own.  He  shook  his  sister's  hand  forcibly,  and  said  with 
vehemence: 

'Mary,  Mary!  I  thank  you!  from  my  heart  I  am  obliged  to  you 
for  this!' 

He  caught  the  little  child  into  his  breast,  devoured  it  with  kisses 
and  murmurs  of  passionate  fondness,  and  hurried  with  it,  as  with  a 
treasure,  to  a  distant  part  of  the  dwelling. 

Mr.  Cregan,  in  the  meanwhile,  had  been  engaged,  at  the  request 
of  Mrs.  O'Connell,  in  giving  out  the  gloves,  scarfs,  and  cypresses, 
in  the  room  which,  on  the  preceding  night,  had  been  alloted  to  the 
female  guests.  In  this  matter,  too,  the  selfishness  of  some  un- 
worthy individuals  was  made  to  appear,  in  their  struggles  for 
precedence,  and  in  their  dissatisfaction  at  being  neglected  in  the 
allotment  of  the  funeral  favours.  In  justice,  however,  it  should 
be  stated  that  the  number  of  those  unfeeling  individuals  was 
inconsiderable. 

The  last  and  keenest  trial  was  now  begun.  The  coffin  was  borne 
on  the  shoulders  of  men  to  the  hearse,  which  was  drawn  up  at  the 
hall-door.  The  hearse-driver  had  taken  his  seat,  the  mourners 
were  already  in  the  carriages,  and  a  great  crowd  of  horsemen,  and 
people  on  foot,  were  assembled  around  the  front  of  the  house,  along 
the  avenue  and  on  the  road.  The  female  servants  of  the  family 
were  dressed  in  scarfs  and  huge  head-dresses  of  white  linen.  The 
housemaid  and  Winny  sat  on  the  coffin,  and  three  or  four  followed 
on  an  outside  jaunting-car.  In  this  order  the  procession  began  to 
move,  and  the  remains  of  this  kind  mistress,  and  affectionate  wife 
and  parent,  were  borne  away  forever  from  the  mansion  which  she 
had  blessed  so  many  years  by  her  gentle  government. 

The  scene  of  desolation  which  prevailed  from  the  time  in  which 
the  coffin  was  first  taken  from  the  room,  until  the  whole  procession 
had  passed  out  of  sight,  it  would  be  a  vain  effort  to  describe.  The 
shrieks  of  the  women  and  children  pierced  the  ears  and  the  hearts 
of  the  multitude.  Every  room  presented  a  picture  of  affliction. 
Female  figures  flying  to  and  fro,  with  expanded  arms,  and  cries  of 
heartbroken  sorrow,  children  weeping  and  sobbing  aloud  in  each 
other's  arms,  men  clenching  their  hands  close,  and  stifling  the 

279 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

strong  sympathy  that  was  making  battle  for  loud  utterance  in  their 
breasts,  and  the  low  groans  of  exhausted  agony  which  proceeded 
from  the  mourning  coaches  that  held  the  father,  Kyrle  Daly,  and 
the  two  nearest  sons.  In  the  midst  of  these  affecting  sounds  the 
hearse  began  to  move,  and  was  followed  to  a  long  distance  on  its 
way  by  the  wild  lament  that  broke  from  the  open  doors  and  windows 
of  the  now  forsaken  dwell  ing. 

'Oh,  misthress!'  exclaimed  Lowry  Looby,  as  he  stood  at  the 
avenue  gate,  clapping  his  hands  and  weeping,  while  he  gazed, 
not  without  a  sentiment  of  melancholy  pride,  on  the  long 
array  which  lined  the  uneven  road,  and  saw  the  black  hearse- 
plumes  becoming  indistinct  in  the  distance,  while  the  rear  of  the 
funeral  tram  was  yet  passing  him  by.  'Oh,  misthress!  misthress! 
'tis  now  I  see  that  you  are  gone  in  airnest.  I  never  would 
believe  that  you  wor  lost,  until  I  saw  your  coffin  goen'  out 
the  doores!' 

From  the  date  of  this  calamity,  a  change  was  observed  to  have 
taken  place  in  the  characters  and  manners  of  this  amiable  family. 
The  war  of  instant  affliction  passed  away,  but  it  left  deep  and  per- 
ceptible traces  in  the  household.  The  Dalys  became  more  grave, 
and  more  religious;  their  tone  of  conversation  of  a  deeper  turn, 
and  the  manner,  even  of  the  younger  children,  more  staid  and 
thoughtful.  Their  natural  mirth  (the  child  of  good  nature,  and 
conscious  innocence  of  heart)  was  not  extinguished;  the  flame  lit 
up  again,  as  time  rolled  on,  but  it  burned  with  a  calmer,  fainter, 
and  perhaps  a  purer  radiance.  Their  merriment  was  frequent 
and  cordial,  but  it  never  again  was  boisterous.  With  the  unhappy 
father,  however,  the  case  was  different.  He  never  rallied.  The 
harmony  of  his  existence  was  destroyed,  and  he  seemed  to  have 
lost  all  interest  in  those  occupations  of  rural  industry  which  had 
filled  up  the  great  proportion  of  his  time  from  boyhood.  Still, 
from  a  feeling  of  duty,  he  was  exact  and  diligent  in  the  perform- 
ance of  those  obligations,  but  he  executed  them  as  a  task,  not  as  a 
pleasure.  He  might  still  be  found,  at  morning,  superintending 
his  workmen  at  their  agricultural  employments,  but  he  did  not 
join  so  heartily,  as  of  old,  in  the  merry  jests  and  tales  which  made 
their  labour  light.  It  seemed  as  if  he  had,  on  that  morning, 
touched  the  perihelium  of  his  existence,  and  from  that  hour  the 
warmth  and  sunshine  of  his  course  was  destined  to  decline  from 
day  to  day. 

280 


THE   COLLEGIANS 
CHAPTER  XXXV 

HOW  HARDRESS  AT  LENGTH  RECEIVED   SOME  NEWS   OF   EILY 

THE  marriage  of  Hardress  Cregan  and  Anne  Chute  was 
postponed  for  some  time,  in  consequence  of  this  affliction 
of  their  old  friends.  Nothing,  in  the  meantime,  was  heard  of  Eily, 
or  her  escort;  and  the  remorse  and  the  suspense  endured  by 
Hardress  began  to  affect  his  mind  and  health  in  a  degree  that 
excited  deep  alarm  in  both  families.  His  manner  to  Anne  still 
continued  the  same  as  before  they  were  contracted;  now  tender, 
passionate,  and  full  of  an  intense  affection;  and  now  sullen,  short, 
intemperate,  and  gloomy.  Her  feeling,  too,  towards  him  continued 
still  unchanged.  His  frequent  unkindness  pained  her  to  the  soul; 
but  she  attributed  all  to  a  natural  or  acquired  weakness  of  temper, 
and  trusted  to  time  and  to  her  own  assiduous  gentleness  to  cure  it. 
He  had  yet  done  nothing  to  show  himself  unworthy  of  her  esteem, 
and  while  this  continued  to  be  the  case,  her  love  could  not  be 
shaken  by  mere  infirmities  of  manner,  the  result,  in  all  probability, 
of  his  uncertain  health,  for  which  he  had  her  pity,  rather  than 
resentment. 

But  on  Mrs.  Cregan  it  produced  a  more  serious  impression.  In 
her  frequent  conversations  with  her  son,  he  had,  in  the  agony  of 
his  heart,  betrayed  the  workings  of  a  deeper  passion,  and  a  darker 
recollection,  than  she  had  ever  imagined  possible.  It  became 
evident  to  her,  from  many  hints  let  fall  in  his  paroxysms  of  anxiety, 
that  Hardress  had  done  something  to  put  himself  within  the  power 
of  outraged  justice,  as  well  as  that  of  an  avenging  conscience. 
From  the  moment  on  which  she  arrived  at  this  discovery,  she 
avoided,  as  much  as  possible,  all  further  conversation  on  those 
topics  with  her  son,  and  it  was  observed  that  she,  too,  had  become 
subject  to  fits  of  abstraction  and  of  seriousness  in  her  general 
manner. 

While  the  fortunes  of  the  family  remained  thus  stationary,  the 
day  arrived  on  which  Hepton  Connolly  was  to  give  his  hunting- 
dinner.  Hardress  looked  forward  to  this  occasion  with  some 
satisfaction,  in  the  hope  that  it  would  afford  a  certain  degree  of 
relief  to  his  mind,  under  its  present  state  of  depression;  and  when 
the  morning  came,  he  was  one  of  the  earliest  men  upon  the  ground. 

The  fox  was  said  to  have  kennelled  in  the  side  of  a  hill,  near  the 

281 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

riverside,  which  on  one  side  was  grey  with  limestone  crag,  and  on 
the  other  covered  with  a  quantity  of  close  furze.  Towards  the 
water  a  miry  and  winding  path  among  the  underwood  led  down- 
ward to  an  extensive  marsh,  or  corcass,  which  lay  close  to  the 
shore.  It  was  overgrown  with  a  dwarfish  rush,  and  intersected 
with  numberless  little  creeks  and  channels,  which  were  never  filled, 
except  when  the  spring-tide  was  at  the  full.  On  a  green  and 
undulating  champaign  above  the  hill,  were  a  considerable  number 
of  gentlemen  mounted,  conversing  in  groups,  or  cantering  their 
horses  around  the  plain,  while  the  huntsman,  whippers-in,  and 
dogs  were  busy  among  the  furze,  endeavouring  to  make  the  fox 
break  cover.  A  crowd  of  peasants,  boys,  and  other  idlers  were 
scattered  over  the  green,  awaiting  the  commencement  of  the  sport, 
and  amusing  themselves  by  criticising,  with  much  sharpness  of 
sarcasm,  the  appearance  of  the  horses,  and  the  action  and  manner 
of  their  riders. 

The  search  after  the  fox  continued  for  a  long  time  without  avail. 
The  gentlemen  became  impatient,  began  to  look  at  their  watches, 
and  to  cast,  from  time  to  time,  an  apprehensive  glance  at  the  heav- 
ens. This  last  movement  was  not  without  a  cause.  The  morning, 
which  had  promised  fairly,  began  to  change  and  darken.  It  was 
one  of  those  sluggish  days  which  frequently  usher  in  the  spring 
season  in  Ireland.  On  the  water,  on  land,  in  air,  on  earth,  every- 
thing was  motionless  and  calm.  The  boats  slept  upon  the  bosom 
of  the  river.  A  low  and  dingy  mist  concealed  the  distant  shores 
and  hills  of  Clare.  Above,  the  eye  could  discern  neither  cloud  nor 
sky.  A  heavy  haze  covered  the  face  of  the  heavens,  from  one 
horizon  to  the  other.  The  sun  was  wholly  veiled  in  mist,  his  place 
in  the  heavens  being  indicated  only  by  the  radiance  of  the  misty 
shroud  in  that  direction.  A  thin,  drizzling  shower,  no  heavier 
than  a  summer  dew,  descended  on  the  party,  and  left  a  hoary  and 
glistening  moisture  on  their  dresses,  on  the  manes  and  forelocks 
of  the  horses,  and  on  the  face  of  the  surrounding  landscape. 

'No  fox  to-day,  I  fear,'  said  Mr.  Cregan,  riding  up  to  one  of  the 
groups  before  mentioned,  which  comprised  his  son  Hardress  and 
Mr.  Connolly.  'At  what  time,'  he  added,  addressing  the  latter, 
'did  you  order  dinner?  I  think  there  is  little  fear  of  our  being 
late  for  it.' 

'Y?u  all  deserve  this,'  said  a  healthy-looking  old  gentleman, 
who  was  one  of  the  group.  'Feather-bed  sportsmen  every  one 

282 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

of  you.  I  rode  out  to-day  from  Limerick  myself,  was  at  home 
before  seven,  went  out  to  see  the  wheat  shaken  in,  and  on  arriving 
on  the  ground  at  ten,  found  no  one  there  but  this  young  gentleman, 
whose  thoughts  seem  to  be  hunting  on  other  ground  at  this  moment. 
When  I  was  a  young  man,  daybreak  never  found  me  napping  that 
way.' 

'  Good  people  are  scarce,'  said  Connolly;  '  it  is  right  we  should 
take  care  of  ourselves.  Hardress,  will  you  canter  this  way?' 

'He  is  cantering  elsewhere,'  said  the  same  old  gentleman,  looking 
on  the  absent  boy.  'Mind  that  sigh.  Ah,  she  had  the  heart  of  a 
stone ! ' 

'I  suspect  he  is  thinking  of  his  dinner,  rather,'  said  his  father. 

'If  Miss  Chute  had  asked  him  to  make  a  circuit  with  her,'  said 
Connolly,  'she  would  not  have  found  it  so  hard  to  get  an  answer.' 

'  Courage,  sir,'  exclaimed  the  old  gentleman,  '  she  is  neither  wed 
nor  dead.' 

'Dead,  did  you  say?'  cried  Hardress,  starting  from  his  reverie. 
'Who  says  it? — Ah,  I  see!' 

A  burst  of  laughter  from  the  gentlemen  brought  the  young  man 
to  his  recollection,  and  his  head  sunk  upon  his  breast,  in  silence  and 
confusion. 

'Come,  Hardress,'  continued  Connolly,  'although  you  are  not 
in  love  with  me,  yet  we  may  try  a  canter  together.  Hark!  What  is 
that?  What  are  the  dogs  doing  now?' 

'They  have  left  the  cover  on  the  hill,'  cried  a  gentleman,  who 
was  galloping  past, '  and  are  trying  the  corcass.' 

'Poor  Dalton!'  said  Mr.  Cregan,  'that  was  the  man  that  would 
have  had  old  Reynard  out  of  cover  before  now.' 

'Poor  Dalton!'  exclaimed  Hardress,  catching  up  the  word  with 
passionate  emphasis,  'poor — poor  Dalton!  Oh,  days  of  my  youth! 
he  added,  turning  aside  on  his  saddle,  that  he  might  not  be  observed, 
and  looking  out  upon  the  quiet  river — 'Oh,  days — past  happy  days! 
my  merry  boyhood,  and  my  merry  youth! — my  boat!  the  broad 
river,  the  rough  west  wind,  the  broken  waves,  and  the  heart  at  rest! 
Oh,  miserable  wretch,  what  have  you  now  to  hope  for?  My  heart 
will  burst  before  I  leave  this  field ! ' 

'The  dogs  are  chopping!'  said  Connolly;  'they  have  found  him. 
Come!  come  away!' 

'  'Tis  a  false  scent,'  said  the  old  gentleman.     '  Ware  hare ! ' 

'Ware  hare!'  was  echoed  by  many  voices.    A  singular  hurry 

283 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

was  observed  amongst  the  crowd  upon  the  brow  of  the  hill,  which 
overlooked  the  corcass,  and  presently  all  had  descended  to  the 
marsh. 

'There  is  something  extraordinary  going  forward,'  said  Cregan. 
'  What  makes  all  the  crowd  collect  upon  the  marsh  ? ' 

A  pause  ensued,  during  which  Hardress  experienced  a  degree  of 
nervous  anxiety,  for  which  he  could  not  account.  The  hounds 
continued  to  chop  in  concert,  as  if  they  had  found  a  strong  scent, 
and  yet  no  fox  appeared. 

At  length  a  horseman  was  observed  riding  up  the  miry  pass 
before  mentioned,  and  galloping  towards  them.  When  he  ap- 
proached they  could  observe  that  his  manner  was  flurried  and 
agitated,  and  that  his  countenance  wore  an  expression  of  terror 
and  compassion.  He  tightened  the  rein  suddenly,  as  he  came 
upon  the  group. 

'Mr.  Warner,'  he  said,  addressing  the  old  gentleman  already 
alluded  to,  'I  believe  you  are  a  magistrate?' 

Mr.  Warner  bowed. 

'Then  come  this  way,  sir,  if  you  please.  A  terrible  occasion 
makes  your  presence  necessary  on  the  other  side  of  the  hill.' 

'No  harm,  sir,  to  any  of  our  friends  I  hope?'  said  Mr.  Warner, 
putting  spurs  to  his  horse,  and  galloping  away.  The  answer  of 
the  stranger  was  lost  in  the  tramp  of  the  hoofs  as  they  rode  away. 

Immediately  after  two  other  horsemen  came  galloping  by.  One 
of  them  held  in  his  hand  a  straw-bonnet,  beaten  out  of  shape,  and 
draggled  in  the  mud  of  the  corcass.  Hardress  just  caught  the 
word  '  horrible '  as  they  rode  swiftly  by. 

'What's  horrible?'  shouted  Hardress  aloud,  and  rising  on  his 
stirrup. 

The  two  gentlemen  were  already  out  of  hearing.  He  sunk  down 
again  on  his  seat,  and  glanced  aside  at  his  father  and  Connolly. 
'What  does  he  call  horrible?'  he  repeated. 

'I  did  not  hear  him,'  said  Connolly,  'but  come  down  upon  the 
corcass,  and  we  shall  learn.' 

They  galloped  in  that  direction.  The  morning  was  changing 
fast,  and  the  rain  was  now  descending  in  much  greater  abundance. 
Still,  there  was  not  a  breath  of  wind  to  alter  its  direction,  or  to  give 
the  slightest  animation  to  the  general  lethargic  look  of  nature.  As 
they  arrived  on  the  brow  of  the  hill,  they  perceived  the  crowd  of 
horsemen  and  peasants  collected  into  a  dense  mass  around  one 

284 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

of  the  little  channels  before  described.  Several  of  those  in  the 
centre  were  stooping  low,  as  if  to  assist  a  fallen  person.  The  next 
rank,  with  their  heads  turned  aside  over  their  shoulders,  were 
employed  in  answering  the  questions  of  those  behind  them.  The 
individuals  who  stood  outside  were  raised  on  tiptoe,  and  endeav- 
oured, by  stretching  their  heads  over  the  shoulders  of  their  neigh- 
bours, to  peep  into  the  centre.  The  whipper-in,  meanwhile,  was 
flogging  the  hounds  away  from  the  crowd,  while  the  dogs  reluctantly 
obeyed.  Mingled  with  the  press  were  the  horsemen,  bending  over 
their  saddle-bows,  and  gazing  downwards  on  the  centre. 

'Bad  manners  to  ye!'  Hardress  heard  the  whipper-in  exclaim, 
as  he  passed,  '  what  a  fox  ye  found  for  us  this  morning.  How  bad 
ye  are,  now,  for  a  taste  o'  the  Christian's  flesh!' 

As  he  approached  nearer  to  the  crowd,  he  was  enabled  to  gather 
further  indications  of  the  nature  of  the  transaction,  from  the 
countenances  and  gestures  of  the  people.  Some  had  their  hands 
elevated  in  strong  fear,  many  brows  were  knitted  in  eager  curiosity, 
some  raised  in  wonder,  and  some  expanded  in  affright.  Urged 
by  an  unaccountable  impulse,  and  supported  by  an  energy  he  knew 
not  whence  derived,  Hardress  alighted  from  his  horse,  threw  the 
reins  to  a  countryman,  and  penetrated  the  group  with  considerable 
violence.  He  dragged  some  by  the  collars  from  their  places,  pushed 
others  aside  with  his  shoulders,  struck  those  who  proved  refractory 
with  his  whip-handle,  and  in  a  few  moments  attained  the  centre 
of  the  ring. 

Here  he  paused,  and  gazed  in  motionless  horror  upon  the  picture 
which  the  crowd  had  previously  concealed. 

A  small  space  was  kept  clear  in  the  centre.  Opposite  to  Hardress 
stood  Mr.  Warner,  the  magistrate  and  coroner  of  the  county,  with 
a  small  note-book  in  his  hand  in  which  he  made  some  entries  with 
a  pencil.  On  his  right  stood  the  person  who  had  summoned  him 
to  the  spot.  At  the  feet  of  Hardress  was  a  small  pool,  in  which  the 
waters  now  appeared  disturbed  and  thick  with  mud,  while  the  rain, 
descending  straight,  gave  to  its  surface  the  semblance  of  ebullition. 
On  a  bank  at  the  other  side,  which  was  covered  with  sea-pink  and 
a  species  of  short  moss  peculiar  to  the  soil,  an  object  lay  on  which 
the  eyes  of  all  were  bent,  with  a  fearful  and  gloomy  expression, 
was  for  the  most  part  concealed  beneath  a  large  blue  mantle,  which 
was  drenched  in  wet  and  mire,  and  lay  so  heavy  on  the  thing  beneath 
as  to  reveal  the  lineaments  of  a  human  form.  A  pair  of  small  jet, 

285 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

in  Spanish  leather  shoes,  appearing  from  below  the  end  of  the 
garment,  showed  that  the  body  was  that  of  a  female;  and  a  mass 
of  long  fair  hair,  which  escaped  from  beneath  the  capacious  hood, 
demonstrated  that  this  death,  whether  the  effect  of  accident  or 
malice,  had  found  the  victim  untimely  in  her  youth. 

The  cloak,  the  feet,  the  hair,  were  all  familiar  objects  to  the  eye 
of  Hardress.  On  very  slight  occasions  he  had  often  found  it 
absolutely  impossible  to  maintain  his  self-possession  in  the  presence 
of  others.  Now,  when  the  fell  solution  of  all  his  anxieties  was 
exposed  before  him — now,  when  it  became  evident  that  the  guilt 
of  blood  was  upon  his  head — now,  when  he  looked  upon  the 
shattered  corpse  of  Eily — of  his  chosen  and  once -beloved  wife, 
murdered  in  her  youth — almost  in  her  girlhood,  by  his  connivance, 
it  astonished  him  to  find  that  all  emotion  came  upon  the  instant  to 
a  dead  pause  within  his  breast.  Others  might  have  told  him  that 
his  face  was  rigid,  sallow,  and  bloodless  as  that  of  the  corpse  on 
which  he  gazed.  But  he  himself  felt  nothing  of  this.  Not  a 
sentence  that  was  spoken  was  lost  upon  his  ear.  He  did  not  even 
tremble,  and  a  slight  anxiety  for  his  personal  safety  was  the  only 
sentiment  of  which  he  was  perceptibly  conscious.  It  seemed  as 
if  the  great  passion,  like  an  engine  embarrassed  in  its  action,  had 
been  suddenly  struck  motionless,  even  while  the  impelling  principle 
remained  in  active  force. 

'Has  the  horse  and  car  arrived?'  asked  Mr.  Warner,  while  he 
closed  his  note-book.  Can  any  one  see  it  coming?  We  shall  be 
all  drenched  to  the  skin  before  we  get  away.' 

'Can  we  not  go  the  nearest  inn  and  proceed  with  the  inquest,' 
said  a  gentleman  in  the  crowd, '  while  some  one  stays  behind  to  see 
the  body  brought  after  ? ' 

'No,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Warner,  with  some  emphasis,  'the  inquest 
must  be  held  super  visum  corporis,  or  it  is  worth  nothing.' 

'Warner,'  whispered  Connolly  to  Cregan  with  a  smile,  'Warner 
is  afraid  of  losing  his  four-guinea  fee.  He  will  not  let  the  body  out 
of  his  sight.' 

'You  know  the  proverb,'  returned  Cregan,  'a  bird  in  the  hand, 
&c.  What  a  fine  fat  fox  he  has  caught  this  morning!' 

At  this  moment  the  hounds  once  more  opened  in  a  chopping 
concert,  and  Hardress,  starting  from  his  posture  of  rigid  calmness, 
extended  his  arms,  and  burst  at  once  into  a  passion  of  wild  fear. 

'The  hounds!    the  hounds!'    he  exclaimed.     'Mr.  Warner,  do 

286 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

0 

you  hear  them?  Keep  off  the  dogs!  They  will  tear  her  if  ye  let 
them  pass!  Good  sir,  will  ye  suffer  the  dogs  to  tear  her?  I  had 
rather  be  torn  myself,  than  look  upon  such  a  sight.  Ye  may  stare 
as  ye  will,  but  I  tell  you  all  a  truth,  gentlemen.  A  truth,  I  say;— 
upon  my  life,  a  truth.' 

'  There  is  no  fear,'  said  Warner,  fixing  a  keen  and  practised  eye 
upon  him. 

'Ay,  but  there  is,  sir,  by  your  leave,'  cried  Hardress.  'Do  you 
hear  them  now?  Do  you  hear  that  yell  for  blood?  /  tell  you,  I 
hate  that  horrid  cry.  It  is  enough  to  make  the  heart  of  a  Christian 
burst.  Who  put  the  hounds  upon  that  horrid  scent  ?  That  false 
scent! — I  am  going  mad,  I  think.  I  say,  sir,  do  you  hear  that 
yelling  now?  Will  you  tell  me  now  there  is  no  fear?  Stand  close! 
Stand  close,  and  hide  me — her,  I  mean;  stand  close!' 

'I  think  there  is  none  whatever,'  said  the  coroner,  probing  him. 

'And  /  tell  you]  cried  Hardress,  grasping  his  whip,  and  abandon- 
ing himself  to  an  almost  delirious  excess  of  rage,  '/  tell  you  there 
is.  If  this  ground  should  open  before  me,  and  I  should  hear  the 
hounds  of  Satan  yelling  upward  from  the  deep,  it  could  not  freeze 
me  with  a  greater  fear!  But,  sir,  you  can  pursue  what  course  you 
please,'  continued  Hardress,  bowing  and  forcing  a  smile,  'you  are 
here  in  office,  sir.  You  are  at  liberty  to  contradict  as  you  please, 
sir,  but  I  have  my  remedy.  You  know  me,  sir,  and  I  know  you. 
I  am  a  gentleman.  Expect  to  hear  farther  from  me  on  this  subject.' 

So  saying,  and  forcing  his  way  through  the  crowd,  with  as  much 
violence  as  he  had  used  in  entering,  he  vaulted  with  the  agility  of  a 
Mercury  into  his  saddle,  and  galloped,  as  if  he  were  on  a  steeple- 
chase, in  the  direction  of  Castle  Chute. 

'If  you  are  a  gentleman,'  said  Mr.  Warner,  'you  are  as 
ill-tempered  a  gentleman  as  ever  I  met,  or  something  a  great  deal 
worse.' 

'Take  care  what  you  say,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Cregan,  riding  rapidly 
up,  after  a  vain  effort  to  arrest  his  son's  flight;  and  after  picking 
up  from  a  straggler,  not  three  yards  from  the  scene  of  action,  the 
exaggerated  report  that  Hardress  and  the  coroner  had  given  each 
other  the  lie.  '  Take  care  what  you  say,  sir,'  he  said.  '  Remember, 
if  you  please,  that  the  gentleman,  ill-tempered  or  otherwise,  is  my 
son.' 

'Mr.  Cregan,'  exclaimed  the  magistrate,  at  length  growing 
somewhat  warm,  'if  he  were  the  son  of  the  Lord-Lieutenant,  I  will 

287 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

not  be  interrupted  in  my  duty.  There  are  many  gentlemen  here 
present;  they  have  witnessed  the  whole  occurrence,  and  if  they  will 
tell  you  that  I  have  done  or  said  anything  unbecoming  a  gentleman, 
I  am  ready  to  give  you,  or  your  son  either,  the  satisfaction  of  a 
gentleman.' 

With  this  pacificatory  and  Christian-like  speech,  the  exemplary 
Irish  peace-preserver  turned  upon  his  heel,  and  went  to  meet  the 
carman  who  was  now  within  a  few  paces  of  the  crowd. 

While  the  pitying  and  astonished  multitude  were  conveying  the 
shattered  remains  of  Eily  O'Connor  to  the  nearest  inn,  her  miserable 
husband  was  flying  with  the  speed  of  Fear  in  the  direction  of 
Castle  Chute.  He  alighted  at  the  Norman  archway,  by  which 
Kyrle  Daly  had  entered  on  the  day  of  his  rejection,  and  throwing 
the  reins  to  Falvey,  rushed,  without  speaking,  up  the  stone  stair- 
case. That  talkative  domestic  still  retained  a  lingering  preference 
for  the  discarded  lover,  and  saw  him  with  grief  supplanted  by  this 
wild  and  passionate  young  gentleman.  He  remained  for  a  moment 
holding  the  reins  in  his  hand,  and  looking  back  with  a  gaze  of  calm 
astonishment  at  the  flying  figure  of  the  rider.  He  then  compressed 
his  lips,  moved  to  a  little  distance  from  the  horse,  and  began  to 
contemplate  the  wet  and  reeking  flanks  and  trembling  limbs  of 
the  beautiful  animal.  The  creature  presented  a  spectacle  calcu- 
lated to  excite  the  compassion  of  a  practised  attendant  upon 
horses.  His  eyes  were  opened  wide,  and  full  of  fire — his  nostrils 
expanded,  and  red  as  blood.  His  shining  coat  was  wet  from  ear 
to  flank,  and  corded  by  numberless  veins,  that  were  now  swollen 
to  the  utmost  by  the  accelerated  circulation.  As  he  panted  and 
snorted  in  his  excitement,  he  scattered  the  flecks  of  foam  over  the 
dress  of  the  attendant. 

'Oh,  murther,  murther!'  exclaimed  the  latter,  after  uttering 
that  peculiar  sound  of  pity  which  is  used  by  the  vulgar  in  Ireland, 
and  in  some  continental  nations.  'Well,  there's  a  man  that  knows 
how  to  use  a  horse.  Look  at  that  crather!  Well,  he  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  himself,  so  he  ought,  any  gentleman  to  use  a  poor  dumb 
crather  in  that  way.  As  if  the  hunt  wasn't  hard  enough  upon  her 
without  bringin'  her  up  in  a  gallop  to  the  very  doore ! ' 

'An'  as  if  my  throuble  wasn't  enough  besides/  grumbled  the 
groom,  as  he  took  the  reins  out  of  Falvey's  hand.  'He  ought  to 
stick  to  his  boating,  that's  what  he  ought,  an'  to  lave  horses  for 
those  that  knows  how  to  use  'em.' 

288 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

'Who  rode  that  horse?'  asked  old  Dan  Dawley,  the  steward, 
as  he  came  along  sulky,  and  bent  by  age,  to  the  hall-door. 

'The  young  masther  we're  getting'  returned  Falvey. 

'Urnph!'  muttered  Dawley  as  he  passed  into  the  house,  'that's 
the  image  of  the  thratement  he'll  give  all  that  he  gets  into  his 
power.' 

'It's  thrue  for  you,'  said  Falvey. 

Dawley  paused,  and  looked  back  over  his  shoulder.  'It's  thrue 
for  me!'  he  repeated  gruffly.  'It's  you  that  say  that,  an'  you  were 
the  first  to  praise  him  when  he  came  into  the  family.' 

'It  stood  to  raison  I  should,'  said  Falvey.  'I  liked  him  then 
betther  than  Masther  Kyrle  himself,  for  bein'  an  offhand  gentleman, 
an'  aisily  spoken  to.  But  sure  a  Turk  itself  couldn't  stand  the  way 
he's  goin'  on  of  late  days!' 

Dawley  turned  away  with  a  harsh  grunt;  the  groom  led  out  the 
heated  steed  upon  the  lawn,  and  Falvey  returned  to  make  the 
cutlery  refulgent  in  the  kitchen. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

HOW    HARDRESS    MADE    A    CONFIDANT 

HARDRESS  CREGAN,  in  the  meantime,  had  proceeded 
to  the  antique  chamber,  mentioned  in  a  former  chapter, 
which  led  to  the  drawing-room  in  the  more  modern  part  of  the 
mansion.  He  flung  himself  into  a  chair  which  stood  near  the  centre 
of  the  apartment,  and  remained  motionless  for  some  moments,  with 
hands  clasped,  and  eyes  fixed  upon  the  floor.  There  were  voices  and 
laughter  in  the  drawing-room,  and  he  could  hear  the  accents  of 
Anne  Chute,  resisting  the  entreaties  of  Mrs.  Cregan  and  her  mother, 
while  they  endeavoured  to  prevail  on  her  to  sing  some  favourite 

melody. 

'Anne,'  said  Mrs.  Chute,  'don't  let  your  aunt  suppose  that  you 
can  be  disobliging.    What  objection  is  there  to  your  singing  that 

song?' 

'One,  I  am  sure,  which  Aunt  Cregan  won't  blame  me  for, 
mamma.     Hardress  cannot  endure  to  hear  it.' 

'But  Hardress  is  not  here  now,  my  dear.' 

289 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'Ah,  ha!  aunt!  Is  that  your  principle?  Would  you  teach  me 
to  take'  advantage  of  his  absence,  then,  to  foster  a  little  will  of  my 
own?' 

'  Go — go — you  giddy  girl,'  said  Mrs.  Chute.  '  Have  you  the 
impudence  to  make  your  aunt  blush  ? ' 

'  My  dear  Anne,'  said  Mrs.  Cregan,'  if  you  never  make  a  more 
disobedient  use  of  your  husband's  absence  than  that  of  singing  a 
little  song  which  you  love  and  which  you  can't  sing  in  his  presence, 
you  will  be  the  best  wife  in  Ireland.' 

'Very  well,  aunt,  very  well.  You  ought  to  know  the  standard 
of  a  good  wife.  You  have  had  some  experience,  or  my  uncle  (I 
should  say)  has  had  some  experience  of  what  a  good  wife  ought  to 
be.  Whether  his  knowledge  in  that  way  has  been  negatively  or 
positively  acquired,  is  more  than  I'll  venture  to  say.' 

Hardress  heard  her  run  a  tender  prelude  along  the  keys  of  her 
instrument,  before  she  sung  the  following  words: 


My  Mary  of  the  curling  hair, 

The  laughing  teeth,  and  bashful  air, 

Our  bridal  morn  is  dawning  fair, 

With  blushes  in  the  skies. 
Shule!  Shulel  Shule,  agral 
Shule  asucur,  agus  shule,  aroonl  * 

My  love!  my  pearl! 

My  own  dear  girl! 
My  mountain  maid,  arise! 

n. 

Wake,  linnet  of  the  osier  grove! 

Wake,  trembling,  stainless,  virgin  dove! 

Wake,  nestling  of  a  parent's  love! 

Let  Moran  see  thine  eyes. 
Shule!  Shule!  &c. 


I  am  no  stranger,  proud  and  gay, 
To  win  thee  from  thy  home  away, 
And  find  thee,  for  a  distant  day, 

A  theme  for  wasting  sighs. 
Shule!  Shule!  &c. 


*Come!  Come!  Come,  my  darling — 
Come,  softly, — and  come,  my  love! 

290 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

IV. 

But  we  were  known  from  infancy, 
Thy  father's  hearth  was  home  to  me, 
No  selfish  love  was  mine  for  thee, 

Unholy  and  unwise. 
Shule!  Shule!  &c. 

v. 

And  yet  (to  see  what  Love  can  do!) 
Though  calm  my  hope  has  burned,  and  true, 
My  cheek  is  pale  and  worn  for  you, 

And  sunken  are  mine  eyes! 
Shule!  Shule/  &c. 

VI. 

But  soon  my  love  shall  be  my  bride, 
And  happy  by  our  own  fireside, 
My  veins  shall  feel  the  rosy  tide, 

That  lingering  Hope  denies. 
Shule/  Shule/  &c. 

VII. 

My  Mary  of  the  curling  hair, 

The  laughing  teeth  and  bashful  air, 

Our  bridal  morn  is  dawning  fair, 

With  blushes  in  the  skies. 
Shule!  Shule!  Shule!  agra! 
Shule  asitcur,  agus  shule,  aroon. 

My  love!  my  pearl! 

My  own  dear  girl! 
My  mountain  maid,  arise! 

After  the  song  was  ended,  Hardress  heard  the  drawing-room 
door  open  and  shut,  and  the  stately  and  measured  pace  of  his 
mother  along  the  little  lobby,  and  on  the  short  flight  of  stairs  which 
led  to  the  apartment  in  which  he  sat.  She  appeared  at  the  narrow 
stone  doorway,  and  used  a  gesture  of  surprise  when  she  beheld 
him. 

'What,  Hardress!'  she  exclaimed,  'already  returned!  Have  ye 
had  good  sport  to-day?' 

'Sport?'  echoed  Hardress,  with  a  burst  of  low,  involuntary 
laughter,  and  without  unclasping  his  wreathed  hands,  or  raising 
his  eyes  from  the  floor,  'yes,  mother,  yes — very  good  sport.  Sport, 
I  think,  that  may  bring  my  neck  in  danger,  one  day.' 

291 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'Have  you  been  hurt,  then,  child?'  said  Mrs.  Cregan,  com- 
passionately bending  over  her  son. 

Hardress  raised  himself  in  his  seat,  and  fixed  his  eye  upon  hers 
for  a  few  moments,  in  gloomy  silence. 

'I  have/  he  said;  'the  hurt  that  I  feared  so  long,  I  have  got  at 
length.  I  am  glad  you  have  come.  I  wished  to  speak  with  you.' 

'  Stay  a  moment,  Hardress.  Let  me  close  those  doors.  Servants 
are  so  inquisitive,  and  apt  to  pry.' 

'Ay,  now,'  said  Hardress,  'now  and  from  this  time  forth,  we 
must  avoid  those  watchful  eyes  and  ears.  What  shall  I  do,  mother  ? 
Advise  me,  comfort  me!  Oh,  I  am  utterly  abandoned  now,  I  have 
no  friend,  no  comforter  but  you!  That  terrible  hope,  that  looked 
more  like  a  fear,  that  kept  my  senses  on  the  rack  from  morn  to 
morn,  is  fled,  at  last,  forever!  I  am  all  forsaken  now.' 

'My  dear  Hardress,'  said  his  mother,  much  distressed,  'when  will 
you  cease  to  afflict  yourself  and  me  with  those  fancies  ?  Forsaken, 
do  you  say?  Do  your  friends  deserve  this  from  you?  You  ask 
me  to  advise  you,  and  my  advice  is  this.  Lay  aside  those  thoughts, 
and  value  as  you  ought  to  do  the  happiness  of  your  condition. 
Who,  with  a  love  like  Anne,  with  a  friend  like  your  amiable  college 
companion,  Daly,  and  with  a  mother  at  least  devoted  in  intention, 
would  deliver  himself  up  as  you  do,  to  fantastic  dreams  of  desola- 
tion and  despair?  If,  as  you  seem  to  hint,  you  have  a  cause  for 
suffering  hi  your  memory,  remember,  Hardress,  that  you  are  not 
left  on  earth  for  nothing.  All  men  have  something  to  be  pardoned, 
and  all  time  here  is  capable  of  being  improved  in  the  pursuit  of 
mercy.' 

'  Go  on,'  said  Hardress,  setting  his  teeth,  and  fixing  a  wild  stare 
upon  his  parent,  'you  but  remind  me  of  my  curses.  With  a  love 
like  Anne?  One  whisper  in  your  ear.  I  love  her  not.  While  I 
was  mad,  I  did;  and  in  my  senses,  now,  I  am  dearly  suffering 
from  that  frantic  treason.  She  was  the  cause  of  all  my  sin  and 
sorrow,  my  first  and  heaviest  curse.  With  such  a  friend?  Why, 
how  you  laugh  at  me!  You  know  how  black  and  weak  a  part  I 
have  played  to  him,  and  yet  you  will  remind  me  that  he  was  my 
friend!  That's  kindly  done,  mother.  Listen!'  he  continued,  lay- 
ing a  firm  grasp  upon  his  mother's  arm.  '  Before  my  eyes,  wherever 
I  turn  me,  and  whether  it  be  dark  or  light,  I  see  One,  painting  the 
hideous  portrait  of  a  fiend.  Day  after  day  he  comes,  and  adds  a 
deeper  and  a  blacker  tint  to  the  resemblance.  Mean  fear,  and 

292 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

selfish  pride,  the  coarser  half  of  love,  worthless  inconstancy,  black 
falsehood,  and  red-handed  murder,  those  are  the  colours  that  he 
blends  and  stamps  upon  my  soul.  I  am  stained  in  every  part. 
The  proud  coward  that  loved  and  was  silent,  when  already  com- 
mitted by  his  conduct,  and  master  of  the  conquest  that  he  feared  to 
claim.  The  hypocrite  that  volunteered  a  friendship,  to  which  he 
proved  false,  almost  without  a  trial.  The  night-brawler,  the  drunk- 
ard, the  faithless  lover,  and  the  perjured  husband!  Where,  who 
has  ever  run  a  course  so  swift  and  full  of  sin  as  mine  ?  You  speak 
of  heaven  and  mercy!  Do  you  think  I  could  so  long  have  endured 
my  agonies  without  remembering  that?  No,  but  a  cry  was  at  its 
gates  before  me,  and  I  never  felt  that  my  prayer  was  heard.  What 
that  cry  was,  I  have  this  morning  learned.  Mother,'  he  added, 
turning  quickly  round  with  great  rapidity  of  voice  and  action,  'I 
am  a  murderer.' 

Mrs.  Cregan  never  heard  the  words.  The  look  and  gesture, 
coupled  with  the  foregoing  speech,  had  pre-informed  her,  and  she 
fell  back,  in  a  deathlike  faint,  into  the  chair. 

When  she  recovered,  she  found  Hardress  kneeling  near  her  side, 
pale,  anxious,  and  terrified,  no  longer  supported  by  that  hurried 
energy  which  he  had  shown  before  the  revealment  of  his  secret,  but 
helpless,  motionless,  and  desolate  as  an  exploded  mine.  For  the 
first  time  the  mother  looked  upon  her  child  with  a  shudder,  but  it 
was  a  shudder  in  which  remorse  was  mingled  deeply  with  abhor- 
rence. She  waved  her  hand  two  or  three  times,  as  if  to  signify 
that  he  should  retire  from  her  sight.  It  was  so  that  Hardress 
understood,  and  obeyed  the  gesture.  He  took  his  place  behind 
the  chair  of  his  parent,  awaiting  with  gaping  lip  and  absent  eye  the 
renewal  of  her  speech.  The  unhappy  mother,  meanwhile,  leaned 
forward  in  her  seat,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  main- 
tained for  several  minutes  that  silent  communion  with  herself, 
which  was  usual  with  her  when  she  had  received  any  sudden 
shock.  A  long  pause  succeeded. 

'Are  you  still  in  the  room?'  she  said,  at  length,  as  a  slight 
movement  of  the  guilty  youth  struck  upon  her  hearing. 

Hardress  started,  as  a  school-boy  might  at  the  voice  of  his  pre- 
ceptor, and  was  about  to  come  forward;  but  the  extended  arm  of 
his  parent  arrested  his  steps. 

'Remain  where  you  are,'  she  said;  'it  will  be  a  long  time  now 
before  I  shall  desire  to  look  upon  my  son.' 

293 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

Hardress  fell  back,  stepping  noiselessly  on  tiptoe,  and  letting  his 
head  hang  dejectedly  upon  his  breast. 

'If  those  things  are  not  dreams,'  Mrs.  Cregan  again  said,  in  that 
calm,  restrained  tone  which  she  always  used  when  her  mind  was 
undergoing  the  severest  struggles;  'if  you  have  not  been  feeding  a 
delirious  fancy,  and  can  restrain  yourself  to  plain  terms  for  one 
quarter  of  an  hour,  let  me  hear  you  repeat  this  unhappy  accident. 
Nay,  come  not  forward,  stay  where  you  are,  and  say  your  story 
there.  Unfortunate  boy!  We  are  a  miserable  pair!' 

She  again  leaned  forward  with  her  face  buried  in  her  expanded 
hands,  while  Hardress,  with  a  low,  chidden,  and  timid  voice  and 
attitude,  gave  her,  in  a  few  words,  the  mournful  history  which  she 
desired.  So  utterly  abandoned  was  he  by  that  hectoring  energy 
which  he  displayed  during  his  former  conversations  with  his  parent, 
that  more  than  half  the  tale  was  drawn  from  him  by  questions,  as 
from  a  culprit,  fearful  of  adding  to  the  measure  of  his  punishment. 

When  he  had  concluded,  Mrs.  Cregan  raised  her  head  with  a 
look  of  great  and  evident  relief. 

'Why,  Hardress,'  she  said,  'I  have  been  misled  in  this.  I  over- 
leaped the  mark  in  my  surmise.  You  are  not  then  the  actual  actor 
of  this  horrid  work ! ' 

'I  was  not  the  executioner,'  said  Hardress.  'I  had  a  deputy,'  he 
added,  with  a  ghastly  smile. 

'Nor  did  you,  by  word  or  act,  give  warrant  for  the  atrocity  of 
which  you  speak?' 

'  Oh,  mother,  if  you  esteem  it  worth  your  while  to  waste  any  kind- 
ness on  me,  forbear  to  torture  my  conscience  with  that  wretched 
subterfuge.  I  am  the  murderer  of  Eily!  It  matters  not  that  my 
finger  has  not  gripped  her  throat,  nor  my  hand  been  reddened  with 
her  blood.  My  heart,  my  will,  has  murdered  her.  My  soul  was 
even  beforehand  with  the  butcher  who  has  sealed  our  common 
ruin  by  his  bloody  disobedience.  I  am  the  murderer  of  Eily!  No, 
not  in  act,  as  you  have  said;  not  even  in  word!  I  breathed  my 
bloody  thoughts  into  no  living  ear.  The  dark  and  hell-born  flame 
was  smouldered  where  it  rose,  within  my  own  lonely  breast.  Not 
through  a  single  chink  or  cleft  in  all  my  conduct  could  that  un- 
natural rage  be  evident.  When  he  tempted  me  aloud,  aloud  I 
answered,  scorned,  and  defied  him;  and  when  at  our  last  fatal 
interview  I  gave  him  that  charge  which  he  has  stretched  to  blood- 
shed, my  speech  was  urgent  for  her  safety.' 

294 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'Ay!' 

'Ay,  mother,  it  is  truth!  I  answer  you  as  I  shall  answer  at  that 
dreadful  bar,  before  that  Throne  the  old  man  told  me  of,  when  he 
and  she  shall  stand  to  blast  me  there!' 

He  stood  erect,  and  held  up  his  hand,  as  if  already  pleading  to 
the  charge.  Mrs.  Cregan  at  the  same  moment  rose,  and  was  about 
to  address  him  with  equal  energy  and  decision  of  manner. 

'But  still,'  he  added,  preventing  her,  'still  I  am  Eily's  murderer! 
If  I  had  an  enemy,  who  wished  to  find  me  a  theme  for  lasting 
misery,  he  could  not  choose  a  way  more  certain  than  that  of  starting 
a  doubt  upon  that  subtle  and  worthless  distinction.  I  am  Eily's 
murderer!  That  thought  will  ring  upon  my  brain,  awake  or 
asleep,  forevermore.  Are  those  things  dreams,  said  you?  Oh, 
I  would  give  the  whole  world  of  realities  to  find  that  I  had  dreamed 
a  horrid  dream,  and  wake,  and  die!' 

'You  overrate  the  measure  of  your  guilt,'  said  Mrs.  Cregan,  and 
was  about  to  proceed,  when  Hardress  interrupted  her. 

'Fool  that  I  was!'  he  exclaimed,  with  a  burst  of  grief  and  self- 
reproach,  'fool,  mad  fool,  and  idiot  that  I  was!  How  blind  to  my 
own  happiness!  Forever  longing  for  that  which  was  beyond  my 
reach,  and  never  able  to  appreciate  that  which  I  possessed.  In 
years  gone  by,  the  present  seemed  always  stale,  and  flat,  and  dreary; 
the  future  and  the  past  alone  looked  beautiful.  Now,  I  must  see 
them  all  with  altered  eyes.  The  present  is  my  refuge,  for  the  past 
is  red  with  blood,  and  the  future  burning  hot  with  shame  and  fire!' 

'  Sit  down,  and  hear  me,  Hardress,  for  one  moment.' 

'Oh,  Eily!'  the  wretched  youth  continued,  stretching  out  his 
arms  to  their  full  extent,  and  seeming  to  apostrophize  some  listen- 
ing spirit.  'Oh,  Eily,  my  lost,  deceived,  and  murdered  love!  Oh, 
let  it  not  be  thus  without  recall!  Tell  me  not  that  the  things  done 
in  those  hideous  months  are  wholly  without  remedy!  Come  back! 
comeback!  my  own  abused  and  gentle  love!  If  tears,  and  groans, 
and  years  of  self-inflicted  penitence,  can  wash  away  that  one  ac- 
cursed thought,  you  shall  be  satisfied.  Look  there!'  he  suddenly 
exclaimed,  grasping  his  mother's  arm  with  one  hand,  and  pointing 
with  the  other  to  a  distant  corner  of  the  room.  'That  vision  comes 
to  answer  me!'  He  followed  a  certain  line  with  his  finger  through 
the  air,  as  if  tracing  the  course  of  some  hallucination.  'As  vivid, 
and  as  ghastly  real,  as  when  I  saw  it  lying,  an  hour  hence,  on  the 
wet,  cold  bank,  the  yellow  hair  uncurled,  the  feet  exposed  (the  feet 

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THE   COLLEGIANS 

that  I  first  taught  to  stray  from  duty!),  the  dank,  blue  mantle,  cov- 
ering and  clinging  round  the  horrid  form  of  death  that  lay  beneath. 
Four  times  I  have  seen  it  since  I  left  the  spot,  and  every  time  it 
grows  more  deadly  vivid.  From  this  time  forth  my  fancies  shall  be 
changed;  for  gloomy  visions,  gloomier  realities;  for  ghastly  fears, 
a  ghastlier  certainty.' 

Here  he  sunk  down  into  the  chair  which  his  mother  had  drawn 
near  her  own,  and  remained  for  some  moments  buried  in  deep 
silence.  Mrs.  Cregan  took  this  opportunity  of  gently  bringing  him 
into  a  more  temperate  vein  of  feeling;  but  her  feelings  carried  her 
beyond  the  limit  which  she  contemplated. 

'Mistake  me  not,'  she  said,  'unhappy  boy!  I  would  not  have 
you  slight  your  guilt.  It  is  black  and  deadly,  and  such  as  heaven 
will  certainly  avenge.  But  neither  must  you  fly  to  the  other  and 
worse  extreme,  where  you  can  only  cure  presumption  by  despair. 
You  are  not  so  guilty  as  you  deem.  That  you  willed  her  death 
was  a  dark  and  deadly  sin;  but  nothing  so  hideous  as  the  atrocious 
act  itself.  One  thing,  indeed,  is  certain,  that  however  this  affair 
may  terminate,  we  are  an  accursed  and  miserable  pair  for  this 
world.  I  in  you,  and  you  in  me!  Most  weak  and  wicked  boy! 
It  was  the  study  of  my  life  to  win  your  love  and  confidence,  and 
my  reward  has  been  distrust,  concealment,  and — ' 

'  Do  you  reproach  me  then  ? '  cried  Hardress,  springing  madly  to 
his  feet,  clenching  his  hand,  and  darting  an  audacious  scowl  upon 
his  parent.  'Beware,  I  warn  you!  I  am  a  fiend,  I  grant  you,  but 
it  was  by  your  temptation  that  I  changed  my  nature.  You,  my 
mother!  You  have  been  my  fellest  foe!  I  drank  in  pride  with 
your  milk,  and  passion  under  your  indulgence.  You  sport  with 
one  possessed  and  desperate.  This  whole  love-scheme,  that  has 
begun  in  trick  and  cunning,  and  ended  in  blood,  was  all  your 
work!  And  do  you  now — ' 

'Hold!'  cried  his  mother,  observing  the  fury  of  his  eye,  and  his 
hand  raised  and  trembling,  though  not  with  the  impious  purpose 
she  affected  to  think.  'Monster,  would  you  dare  to  strike  your 
parent!' 

As  if  he  had  received  a  sudden  blow,  Hardress  sunk  down  at  her 
feet,  which  he  pressed  between  his  hands,  while  he  lowered  his 
forehead  to  the  very  dust.  'Mother!'  he  said  in  a  changed  and 
humbled  voice,  'my  first,  my  constant,  and  forbearing  friend,  you 
are  right.  I  am  not  quite  a  demon  yet.  My  brain  may  fashion 

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THE  COLLEGIANS 

wild  and  impious  words,  but  it  is  your  son's  heart  that  still  beats 
within  my  bosom.    I  did  not  dream  of  such  a  horrid  purpose.' 

After  a  silence  of  some  minutes,  the  wretched  young  man  arose, 
with  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  took  his  seat  in  the  chair.  Here  he 
remained  fixed  in  the  same  absent  posture,  and  listening,  but  with 
a  barren  attention,  to  the  many  soothing  speeches  which  were  ad- 
dressed to  him  by  his  mother.  At  length,  rising  hastily  from  his 
seat,  with  a  look  of  greater  calmness  than  he  had  hitherto  shown, 
he  said: 

'  Mother,  there  is  one  way  left  for  reparation.  I  will  give  my- 
self up.' 

'Hold,  madman!' 

'  Nay,  hold,  mother.  I  will  do  it.  I  will  not  bear  this  fire  upon 
my  brain.  I  will  not  still  add  crime  to  crime  forever.  If  I  have 
outraged  justice,  it  is  enough.  I  will  not  cheat  her.  Why  do  you 
hang  upon  me?  I  am  weak  and  exhausted;  a  child  could  stay  me 
now — a  flaxen  thread  could  fetter  me.  Release  me,  mother!  There 
is  peace  and  hope  and  comfort  in  this  thought.  Elsewhere  I  can 
find  nought  but  fire  and  scourges.  Oh,  let  me  make  this  offering 
of  a  wretched  life  to  buy  some  chance  of  quiet.  You  are  tying  me 
down  to  misery.  I  never  shall  close  an  eye  in  sleep  again,  until  I 
lie  upon  a  dungeon  floor.  I  never  more  shall  smile,  until  I  stand 
upon  the  scaffold.  Well,  well,  you  will  prevail,  you  will  prevail/ 
he  added,  as  his  mother  forced  him  back  into  the  chair  which  he 
had  left,  'but  I  may  find  a  time.  My  life,  I  know,  is  forfeited.* 

'It  is  not  forfeited!' 

'Not  forfeited!  Hear  you,  just  heaven,  and  judge!  The  ragged 
wretch,  who  pilfers  for  his  food,  must  die; — the  starving  father,  who 
counterfeits  a  wealthy  name  to  save  his  children  from  a  horrid 
death,  must  die; — the  goaded  slave,  who,  driven  from  the  holding 
of  his  fathers,  avenges  his  wrong  upon  the  usurper's  property, 
must  die;  and  I,  who  have  pilfered  for  my  passion,  I  the  hypocrite, 
the  false  friend,  the  fickle  husband,— the  coward,  traitor,  and  mur- 
derer (I  am  disgusted  while  I  speak!),  my  life  has  not  been  for- 
feited! I,  alone,  stand  harmless  beneath  these  bloody  laws!  ^  I 
said  I  should  not  smile  again,  but  this  will  force  a  laugh  in  spite 
of  me.' 

Mrs.  Cregan  prudently  refrained  from  urging  the  subject^  farther 
for  the  present,  and  contented  herself  with  appealing  to  his^  affec- 
tionate consideration  of  her  own  feelings,  rather  than  reminding 

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THE   COLLEGIANS 

him  of  his  interest  in  the  transaction.  This  seemed  more  effectu- 
ally to  work  upon  his  mind.  He  listened  calmly  and  with  less 
reluctance,  and  was  about  to  express  his  acquiescence,  when  a 
loud  and  sudden  knocking  at  the  outer  door  of  the  chamber  made 
him  start  from  his  chair,  turn  pale,  and  shake  in  every  limb  like 
one  convulsed.  Mrs.  Cregan,  who  had  herself  been  startled,  was 
advancing  towards  the  door,  when  the  knocking  was  heard  again, 
though  not  so  loud,  against  that  which  led  to  the  drawing-room. 
Imagining  that  her  ear,  in  the  first  instance,  had  deceived  her,  she 
turned  on  her  steps,  and  was  proceeding  toward  the  latter  entrance, 
when  the  sound  was  heard  at  both  doors  together,  and  with  in- 
creased loudness.  Slight  as  this  accident  appeared,  it  produced  so 
violent  an  effect  upon  the  nerves  of  Hardress,  that  it  was  with 
difficulty  he  was  able  to  reach  the  chair  he  had  left  without  falling 
to  the  ground. 

The  doors  were  opened — the  one  to  Anne  Chute,  and  the  other 
to  Mr.  Cregan. 

'I  am  come  to  tell  you,  aunt,  that  dinner  is  on  the  table,'  said 
the  former. 

'  And  I  am  come,  on  the  very  point  of  time,  to  claim  a  neighbour's 
share  of  it,'  said  Mr.  Cregan. 

'We  are  more  fortunate  than  we  expected,'  said  Anne.  'We 
thought  you  would  have  dined  with  Mr.  Connolly.' 

'Thank  you  for  that  hint,  my  good  niece.' 

'Oh,  sir,  don't  be  alarmed;  you  will  not  find  us  unprovided, 
notwithstanding.  Mr.  Hardress  Cregan,'  she  continued,  moving 
towards  his  chair  with  a  lofty  and  yet  playful  carriage,  'will  you 
allow  me  to  lead  you  to  the  dining-room  ? ' 

'He  is  ill,  Anne,  a  little  ill,'  said  Mrs.  Cregan,  in  a  low  voice. 

'Dear  Hardress!  you  have  been  thrown!'  exclaimed  Anne,  sud- 
denly stooping  over  him  with  a  look  of  tender  interest  and  alarm. 

'No,  Anne,'  said  Hardress,  shaking  her  hand  in  grateful  kind- 
ness. 'I  am  not  so  indifferent  a  horseman.  I  shall  be  better 
presently.' 

'Go  in — go  in,  ladies,'  said  Mr.  Cregan.  'I  have  a  word  on 
business  to  say  to  Hardress.  We  will  follow  you  in  three  minutes.' 

The  ladies  left  the  room,  and  Mr.  Cregan,  drawing  his  son  into 
the  light,  looked  on  his  face  for  some  moments  with  silent  scrutiny. 
'I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it,'  he  said,  at  length,  tossing  his 
head;  'you're  not  flagging,  Hardress,  are  you?' 

298 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'Flagging,  sir?' 

'Yes.  You  do  not  feel  a  little  queer  about  the  heart  now,  in 
consequence  of  this  affair?' 

Hardress  started,  and  shrunk  back. 

'Whew!' — the  old  sportsman  gave  utterance  to  a  prolonged 
sound  that  bore  some  resemblance  to  a  whistle. — "Tis  all  up! 
That  start  spoke  volumes.  You've  dished  yourself  forever;  let 
nobody  see  you. — Go!  go  along  into  some  corner,  and  hide  yourself; 
go  to  the  ladies,  that's  the  place  for  you.  What  a  fool  I  was  to 
leave  a  pleasant  dinner  party,  and  come  here  to  look  after  a — 
Well,  I  have  seen  you  stand  fire  stoutly  once.  But  so  it  is  with  all 
cowards.  The  worm  will  turn  when  trod  upon;  and  you  were 
primed  with  strong  drink,  moreover.  But  how  dared  you — this 
is  my  chief  point,  this — how  dared  you  stand  up,  and  give  any 
gentleman  the  lie,  when  you  have  not  the  heart  to  hold  to  your 
words?  What  do  you  stare  at?  Answer  me!' 

'  Give  any  gentleman  the  lie!'  echoed  Hardress. 

'  Yes,  to  be  sure.  Didn't  you  give  Warner  the  lie,  while  ago,  upon 
the  corcass?' 

'Not  I,  I  am  sure.' 

'  No !    What  was  your  quarrel  then  ? ' 

'We  had  no  quarrel.     You  are  under  some  mistake.' 

'That's  very  strange.  That's  another  affair.  It  passes  all  that 
I  have  ever  heard.  The  report  all  over  the  ground  was  that  you 
had  exchanged  the  lie,  and  some  even  went  so  far  as  to  say  that 
you  had  horsewhipped  him.  It  leaves  me  at  my  wit's  end.' 

At  this  moment,  Falvey  put  in  his  head  at  the  door,  and  said: 

'Dinner,  if  ye  plase,  gentlemen,  the  ladies  is  waitin'  for  ye.' 

This  summons  ended  the  conversation  for  the  present,  and 
Hardress  followed  his  father  into  the  dining-room. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

HOW  HARDRESS  FOUND  THAT  CONSCIENCE  IS  THE  SWORN  FOE  OF 

VALOUR 

HE,  who,  when  smitten  by  a  heavy  fever,  endeavours,  with 
bursting   head  and  aching   bones,  to  maintain  a  cheerful 
seeming  among  a  circle  of  friends,  may  imagine  something  of 

299 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

Hardress  Cregan's  situation  on  this  evening.  His  mother  contrived 
to  sit  near  him  during  the  whole  time,  influencing  his  conduct  by 
word  and  gesture,  as  one  would  regulate  the  movements  of  an 
automaton. 

The  company  consisted  only  of  that  lady,  her  son  and  husband 
and  the  two  ladies  of  the  mansion.  The  fire  burned  cheerfully 
in  the  grate,  the  candles  were  lighted,  Anne's  harpsichord  was 
thrown  open;  and  had  the  apartment  at  that  moment  been  unroofed 
by  the  Boiteux,  in  the  sight  of  his  companion,  Don  Arrias  would 
have  pronounced  it  a  scene  of  domestic  happiness  and  comfort. 

It  appeared  from  the  conversation  which  took  place  in  the  course 
of  the  evening,  that  the  coroner  had  not  even  found  any  one  to 
recognise  the  body,  and  the  jury,  after  giving  the  case  a  long  con- 
sideration, had  come  to  the  only  conclusion  for  which  there  ap- 
peared to  be  satisfactory  evidence.  They  had  returned  a  verdict 
of  'Found  drowned.' 

'He  would  be  a  sharp  lawyer,'  continued  Mr.  Cregan,  'that 
could  take  them  up  on  that  verdict.  I  thought  there  were  some 
symptoms  of  murder  in  the  case,  and  wished  them  to  adjourn  the 
inquest,  but  I  was  overruled.  After  all,  I'll  venture  to  say,  it  was 
some  love  business.  She  had  a  wedding-ring  on.' 

'Be  calm,'  whispered  Mrs.  Cregan,  laying  her  hand  on  her  son's 
arm. 

'Some  young  husband,  perhaps,  who  found  he  had  made  a  bad 
bargain.  Take  care  of  yourself,  Anne; — Hardress  may  learn  the 
knack  of  it.' 

Hardress  acknowledged  the  goodness  of  this  jest  by  a  hideous 
laugh. 

'It  was  a  shocking  business!'  said  Mrs.  Chute.  'I  wonder, 
Hardress,  how  you  can  laugh  at  it.  Depend  upon  it,  it  will  not 
terminate  in  that  way.  Murder  is  like  fire,  it  will  out  at  some  cleft 
or  another.' 

'That  is  most  likely  to  be  the  case  in  the  present  instance,'  said 
Mr.  Cregan,  'for  the  clothes,  in  all  likelihood,  will  be  identified, 
and  Warner  has  sent  an  advertisement  to  all  the  newspapers,  and 
to  the  parish  chapels,  giving  an  account  of  the  whole  transaction. 
It  is,  indeed,  quite  certain  that  the  case  will  be  cleared  up,  and  the 
foul  play,  if  there  be  any,  discovered.  Whether  the  perpetrators 
will  be  detected  or  not  is  a  different  question.' 

Mrs.  Cregan,  who  was  in  an  agony  during  this  conversation,  felt 

300 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

a  sudden  relief  when  it  was  ended  by  Anne  Chute's  calling  on  her 
uncle  for  a  song. 

Mr.  Cregan,  who  was  always  very  funny  among  young  people, 
replied  that  he  would  with  all  his  heart.  And  accordingly,  with 
a  prefatory  hem,  he  threw  back  his  head,  raised  his  eyes  to  the 
cornice,  dropped  his  right  leg  over  the  left  knee,  and  treated  the 
company  to  the  following  effusion,  humouring  the  tune  with  his 
head,  by  slightly  jerking  it  from  side  to  side; 

'Gilli  ma  chree, 

Sit  down  by  me, 
We  now  are  joined  and  ne'er  shall  sever; 

This  hearth's  our  own, 

Our  hearts  are  one, 
And  peace  is  ours  forever! 


When  I  was  poor, 

Your  father's  door 
Was  closed  against  your  constant  lover, 

With  care  and  pain, 

I  tried  in  vain 
My  fortunes  to  recover. 
I  said,  "To  other  lands  I'll  roam, 

Where  Fate  may  smile  an  me,  love;" 
I  said,  "Farewell,  my  own  old  home!" 
And  I  said,  "Farewell  to  thee,  love!" 

Sing  Gilli  ma  chree,  &c. 

n. 

I  might  have  said, 
"My  mountain  maid, 
Come  live  with  me,  your  own  true  lover; 
I  know  a  spot, 
A  silent  cot 

Your  friends  can  ne'er  discover. 
Where  gently  flows  the  waveless  tide 

By  one  small  garden  only, 
Where  the  heron  waves  his  wings^so  wide, 
And  the  linnet  sings  so  lonely." 
Sing  Gilli  ma  chree,  &c. 

in. 

I  might  have  said,  _ 

"My  mountain  maid, 
A  father's  right  was  never  given 

True  hearts  to  curse 

With  tyrant  force 
That  have  been  blessed  in  heaven.- 

301 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

But  then,  I  said,  "In  after  years, 

When  thoughts  of  home  shall  find  her; 

My  love  may  mourn  with  secret  tears 
Her  friends,  thus  left  behind  her." 
Sing  Gilli  ma  chree,  &c. 

IV. 

"Oh,  no,"  I  said, 

"My  own  dear  maid, 
For  me,  though  all  forlorn,  forever, 

That  heart  of  thine 

Shall  ne'er  repine 
O'er  slighted  duty — never! 
From  home  and  thee  though  wandering  far 

A  dreary  fate  be  mine,  love; 
I'd  rather  live  in  endless  war, 

Than  buy  a  peace  with  thine,  love.?' 

Sing  Gilli  ma  chree,  &c. 

v. 

Far,  far  away, 

By  night  and  day, 
I  toiled  to  win  a  golden  treasure; 

And  golden  gains 

Repaid  my  pains 
In  fair  and  shining  measure. 
I  sought  again  my  native  land, 

Thy  father  welcomed  me,  love; 
I  poured  my  gold  into  his  hand, 

And  my  guerdon  found  in  thee,  love  I 

Sing  Gilli  ma  chree, 

Sit  down  by  me, 
We  now  are  joined,  and  ne'er  shall  sever; 

This  hearth's  our  own, 

Our  hearts  are  one, 
And  peace  is  ours  forever!' 

It  was  not  until  he  courted  rest  and  forgetfulness  in  the  solitude 
of  his  chamber,  that  the  hell  of  guilt  and  memory  began  to  burn 
within  the  breast  of  Hardress.  Fears,  which  until  this  moment 
he  had  despised  as  weak  and  childish,  now  oppressed  his  imagina- 
tion with  all  the  force  of  a  real  and  imminent  danger.  The  dark- 
ness of  his  chamber  was  crossed  by  horrid  shapes,  and  the  pillow 
seemed  to  burn  beneath  his  cheek,  as  if  he  lay  on  fire.  If  he  dozed, 
he  seemed  to  be  rocked  on  his  bed,  as  if  borne  upward  on  the  back 
of  a  flying  steed,  and  the  cry  of  hounds  came  yelling  on  his  ear  with 
a  discord  even  more  terrible  than  that  which  rung  upon  the  ear  of 
the  hunted  Actaeon,  in  the  exquisite  fiction  of  the  ancients.  That 
power  of  imagination,  in  which  he  had  been  often  accustomed  to 

302 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

take  pride,  as  in  a  high  intellectual  endowment,  became  now  his 
most  fearful  curse;  and  as  it  had  been  a  chief  instrument  in  his 
seduction,  was  also  made  a  principal  engine  of  retribution. 

Several  circumstances,  trifling  in  themselves,  but  powerful  in 
their  operation  upon  the  mind  of  the  guilty  youth,  occurred  in  the 
course  of  the  ensuing  week,  to  give  new  fuel  to  the  passion  which 
preyed  upon  his  nerves.  A  few  of  these  we  will  relate  (though 
immaterial  in  their  influence  upon  his  subsequent  fortunes),  if 
only  for  the  purpose  of  showing  how  slight  a  breath  may  shake  the 
peace  of  him  who  has  suffered  it  to  be  sapped  in  the  foundation. 

When  the  first  agony  of  his  remorse  went  by,  the  love  of  life, 
triumphant  even  over  that  appalling  passion,  made  him  join  his 
mother  in  her  fears  of  a  discovery,  and  her  precautions  for  its  pre- 
vention. He  sought,  therefore,  many  opportunities  of  misleading 
the  observation  of  his  acquaintances,  and  affected  to  mingle  in 
their  amusements  with  a  greater  carelessness  than  he  had  ever 
assumed  during  the  period  of  his  uncertainty  respecting  Eily's  fate. 

A  small  party  had  been  formed  one  morning,  for  the  purpose  of 
snipe-shooting,  and  Hardress  was  one  of  the  number.  In  a  rushy 
swamp  (adjoining  the  little  bay  which  had  been  selected  as  the 
scene  of  the  saddle-race  so  many  months  before)  the  game  were 
said  to  exist  in  great  quantities,  and  thither  accordingly  the  sports- 
men first  repaired.  A  beautiful,  but  only  half-educated  pointer, 
which  Hardress  procured  in  Kerry,  in  his  eagerness  for  sport,  had 
repeatedly  broke  out  of  bound,  in  disregard  of  all  the  menaces  and 
entreaties  of  his  owner;  and  by  these  means,  on  many  occasions 
narrowly  escaped  destruction.  At  length,  while  he  was  indulging 
in  one  of  those  wild  gambols,  a  bird  rose  with  a  sudden  shriek 
from  the  very  feet  of  Hardress,  and  fled  forward,  darting  and 
wheeling  in  a  thousand  eccentric  circles.  Hardress  levelled  and 
fired.  The  snipe  escaped,  but  a  mournful  howl  of  pain,  ^from  the 
animal  before  alluded  to,  seemed  to  announce  that  the  missile  had 
not  sped  upon  a  fruitless  errand.  In  a  few  seconds  the  poor 
pointer  was  seen  crawling  out  of  the  rushes,  and  turning  at  every 
step  to  whine  and  lick  its  side,  which  was  covered  with  blood. 
The  slayer  ran,  with  an  aching  heart,  towards  the  unfortunate 
creature,  and  stooped  to  assist  and  to  caress  it.  But  the  wound 
was  past  all  remedy.  The  poor  quadruped  whimpered,  and  fawned 
upon  his  feet,  as  if  to  disarm  the  suspicion  of  resentment,  and 
in  the  action. 

3°3 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'Oh,  murther,  murther!'  said  Pat  Falvey,  who  accompanied  the 
party,  'the  poor  thing  was  all  holed  with  the  shot!  Oh,  look  at 
the  limbs  stiffening — and  the  light  that's  gatherin'  in  the  eyes! 
There's  death,  now,  Masther  Hardress,  the  Lord  save  us! — there's 
death!' 

'Where?'  said  Hardress,  looking  round  with  some  wildness  of 
eye,  and  a  voice  which  was  indicative  at  the  same  time  of  anger 
and  of  bodily  weakness. 

'There,  before  your  eye,  sir,'  said  Falvey.  'There's  what  we'll 
all  have  to  go  through  one  time  or  another,  the  Christian  as  well 
as  the  baste!  'Twould  be  well  for  some  of  us,  if  we  had  as 
little  to  answer  for  as  that  poor  pointher,  afther  our  doin's 
in  this  world.' 

The  other  gentlemen  had  now  collected  around,  with  many  ex- 
pressions of  condolence  on  the  fate  of  the  poor  servant  of  the  chase. 
Hardress  appeared  to  be  affected  in  a  peculiar  manner  by  the 
transaction  which  he  had  witnessed.  His  glances  were  vague  and 
unsettled,  his  cheek  was  deadly  pale,  and  his  limbs  trembled  ex- 
ceedingly. This  was  the  first  shot  he  had  fired  in  the  course  of 
the  day,  and  the  nature  of  the  sport  in  which  he  was  engaged  had 
not  once  occurred  to  him,  until  he  saw  the  blood  flowing  at  his  feet. 
To  a  mind  like  his,  always  sensitive  and  reflective,  and  rendered 
doubly  so  by  the  terrific  associations  of  the  last  few  months,  the 
picture  of  death  in  this  poor  quadruped  was  scarcely  less  appalling 
than  it  might  have  been  in  the  person  of  a  fellow-mortal.  He  felt 
his  head  grow  dizzy,  as  he  turned  away  from  the  spot;  and,  after 
a  few  feeble  paces,  he  fell  senseless  among  the  rushes. 

The  gentlemen  hastened  to  his  relief,  with  looks  of  astonishment 
rather  than  of  pity.  Some  there  were,  imperfectly  acquainted  with 
his  character,  or  perplexed  by  the  extraordinary  change  which  it 
had  lately  undergone,  who  winked  and  sneered,  apart,  when  he 
was  lifted  from  the  earth;  and  though  no  one  ventured  openly  to 
impute  any  effeminacy  of  character  to  the  young  gentleman,  yet 
whenever  they  spoke  of  the  occurrence  in  the  course  of  the  day,  it 
was  not  without  exchanging  a  conscious  smile. 

On  another  occasion,  a  boating  party  was  formed,  when  Hardress, 
as  usual,  took  the  rudder  in  his  hand.  His  father,  on  entering  the 
little  vessel,  was  somewhat  surprised  at  seeing  a  new  boatman 
seated  on  the  forecastle. 

'Hello!'  he  said,  'what's  your  name,  my  honest  fellow?' 

3°4 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

'Larry  Kett,  sir,  plase  your  honour,'  returned  the  man  (a  sturdy 
old  person,  with  a  face  as  black  as  a  storm). 

'Why,  Hardress,  had  you  a  quarrel  with  your  little  hunchback?' 

Hardress  stooped  suddenly  down,  as  if  for  the  purpose  of  arrang- 
ing a  block,  and  after  a  little  silence  replied: 

'  No  quarrel,  sir,  but  he  chose  to  seek  another  service,  and  I  do 
not  think  I  have  made  a  bad  exchange.' 

The  conversation  changed,  and  the  party  (among  whom  was 
Anne  Chute)  proceeded  on  their  excursion.  The  wind  freshened 
considerably  in  the  course  of  the  forenoon,  and  before  they  had 
reached  that  part  of  the  river  which  flowed  by  the  dairy  cottage  of 
Mr.  Daly,  it  blew  a  desperate  gale.  The  boatmen,  more  anxious 
for  the  comfort  of  the  ladies  than  really  apprehensive  for  the  boat, 
suggested  the  expediency  of  putting  about  on  the  homeward  course 
before  the  tide  should  turn. 

'If  you  hold  on,'  said  the  man,  with  a  significant  look,  'until  the 
tide  an'  wind  come  conthrary,  there'll  be  a  swell  there  in  the  channel, 
that  is  as  much  as  you  can  do  to  come  through  it  with  the  two  reefs.' 

Hardress  assented,  but  it  was  already  too  late.  They  were  now  a 
considerable  distance  below  the  cottage,  with  a  strong  westerly  wind, 
and  a  tide  within  twenty  minutes  of  the  flood. 

'What  are  you  doing,  Masther  Hardhress?'  said  the  boatman. 
'  Won't  you  haul  home  the  mainsheet  and  gibe  ? ' 

Hardress,  whose  eyes  had  been  fixed  on  the  rocky  point  before 
the  cottage,  started  suddenly,  and  proceeded  to  execute  the  nautical 
manoeuvre  in  question.  The  little  vessel,  as  docile  to  her  helm  as 
a  well-mounted  hunter  to  his  rider,  threw  her  bow  away  from  the 
wind,  and  rushed  roaring  through  the  surges  with  a  fuller  sail  and 
a  fiercer  energy.  After  suffering  her  to  run  for  a  few  minutes  before 
the  wind,  Hardress  commenced,  with  due  caution,  the  somewhat 
dangerous  process  of  gibing,  or  shifting  the  mainsail  from  one  side 
of  the  vessel  to  the  other. 

'  Down  with  ye'r  heads,  ladies,  if  ye  plase,  take  care  o'  the  boom.' 

All  the  heads  were  lowered,  and  the  boom  swung  rapidly  across, 
and  the  vessel  heeled  with  the  sudden  impulse,  until  her  leeward 
gunwale  sipped  the  brine. 

'  Giye  her  a  free  sheet,  now,  Masther  Hardhress,'  said  Kett, '  and 
we'll  be  up  in  two  hours.' 

All  boatmen  know  that  it  requires  a  much  steadier  hand  and 
more  watchful  eye  to  govern  a  vessel  when  the  wind  is  fair  than 

3°5 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

when  it  is  adverse.  A  still  greater  nicety  of  attention  was  requisite 
in  the  present  instance,  as  the  wind  was  high,  and  the  now  return- 
ing tide  occasioned,  as  the  boatman  predicted,  a  heavy  sea  in  the 
channel.  It  was  therefore  with  considerable  chagrin  that  Larry 
Kett  perceived  his  master's  mind  wandering,  and  his  attention  fre- 
quently altogether  withdrawn  from  the  occupation  which  he  had  in 
hand.  That  nervous  disease,  to  which  he  had  become  a  slave  for 
many  weeks,  approached  a  species  of  paroxysm  when  Hardress 
found  himself  once  more  upon  the  very  scene  where  he  had  first 
encountered  danger  with  the  unfortunate  Eily,  and  before  that 
dwelling,  beneath  whose  roof  he  had  plighted  to  his  forgotten 
friend  the  faith  which  he  had  since  betrayed.  It  was  impossible 
his  reason  could  preserve  its  calmness  amid  those  terrible  remem- 
brancers. As  the  shades  of  evening  fell,  assisted  by  the  gloomy 
clouds  that  scowled  upon  the  brow  of  heaven,  he  became  subject  to 
the  imaginative  weakness  of  a  child.  The  faces  of  his  companions 
darkened  and  grew  strange  to  his  eye.  The  roar  of  the  waters  was 
redoubled,  and  the  howling  of  the  wind  along  the  barren  shores, 
brought  to  his  mind  the  horrid  cry  of  the  hounds,  by  which  his 
guilt  and  his  misery  had  been  so  fearfully  revealed.  The  shapes  of 
those  whom  he  had  wronged  seemed  to  menace  him  from  the  gloomy 
chasms  that  gaped  around  between  the  enormous  billows,  and  the 
blast  came  after  with  a  voice  of  reproach,  as  if  to  hurry  him  onward 
to  a  place  of  dreadful  retribution.  Sometimes  the  corpse  of  Eily, 
wrapt  in  the  blue  mantle  which  she  generally  wore,  seemed  to  be 
rolled  downward  from  the  ridge  of  a  foaming  breaker,  sometimes 
the  arms  seemed  stretched  to  him  for  aid;  and  sometimes  the  pale 
and  shrouded  figure  of  Mrs.  Daly  seemed,  from  the  gloom,  to  bend 
on  him  a  look  of  quiet  sadness  and  upbraiding.  While  wholly  ab- 
sorbed in  the  contemplation  of  these  phantoms,  a  rough  grasp  was 
suddenly  laid  upon  his  arm,  and  a  rough  voice  shouted  in  his  ear — 

'Are  you  deaf  or  dreaming?  Mind  your  hand,  or  you  will  put 
us  down!' 

Hardress  looked  around,  like  one  who  suddenly  awakes  from 
slumber,  and  saw  his  father  looking  on  him  with  an  inflamed  and 
angry  countenance.  In  his  reverie  a  change  had  taken  place  of 
which  he  was  wholly  unconscious.  A  heavy  shower  drove  full 
upon  the  party,  the  sky  had  grown  still  darker,  and  the  wind  had 
risen  still  higher.  The  time  had  long  gone  by  when  the  spirits  of 
Hardress  caught  fire  from  the  sight  of  danger,  and  when  his  energies 

306 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

were  concentrated  by  difficulty,  as  the  firmness  of  an  arch  is  aug- 
mented by  the  weight  which  it  is  made  to  sustain.  The  suddenness 
of  his  father's  action  startled  him  to  the  very  heart — the  strange, 
and,  as  it  appeared  to  him,  sudden  change  in  the  weather  confirmed 
the  disorder  of  his  senses,  and  shrinking  downward,  as  a  culprit 
might  do  from  the  sudden  arrest  of  an  officer  of  justice,  he  aban- 
doned the  rudder,  and  fled  with  murmurs  of  affright  into  the 
centre  of  the  boat,  where  he  sank  exhausted  upon  the  ballast. 

The  scene  of  confusion  which  ensued  it  is  not  needful  that  we 
should  describe.  Larry  Kett,  utterly  unable  to  comprehend  what 
he  beheld,  took  charge  of  the  helm,  while  the  remainder  of  the 
party  busied  themselves  in  restoring  Hardress  to  some  degree  of 
composure.  There  was  no  remark  made  at  the  time,  but  when 
the  party  were  separating,  some  touched  their  foreheads,  and  com- 
pressed their  lips  in  a  serious  manner;  while  others,  hi  secret 
whispers,  ventured  for  the  first  time  to  couple  the  name  of  Hardress 
Cregan  with  that  epithet  which  is  so  deeply  dreaded  and  hated 
by  young  men,  that  they  will  burst  the  ties  of  moral  justice,  of 
religion,  of  humanity,  and  even  incur  the  guilt  of  murder,  to 
avoid  its  imputation — the  epithet  of  coward. 

Never  was  there  a  being  more  constitutionally  formed  for  deeds 
of  courage,  and  of  enterprise,  than  Hardress;  and  yet  (such  is  the 
power  of  conscience),  never  was  a  stigma  affixed  with  greater  justice. 
He  hurried  early  to  his  room,  where  he  passed  a  night  of  feverish 
restlessness,  secured  indeed  from  the  observation  of  others,  but  still 
subjected  to  the  unwinking  gaze  of  memory,  whose  glance,  like  the 
diamond  eyes  of  the  famous  idol,  seemed  to  follow  him  whitherso- 
ever he  turned  with  the  same  deadly  and  avenging  expression. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

HOW   THE   SITUATION   OF  HARDRESS   BECAME   MORE  CRITICAL 


A 


NOTHER  occurrence,  mingled  with  somewhat  more  of  the 

ridiculous,  but  not  less  powerful  in  its  effect  upon  the  mind 

of  Hardress,  took  place  in  a  few  days  afterwards. 

In  the  lack  of  some  equally  exciting  exercise,  and  in  order  to 
form  a  pretext  for  his  frequent  absence  from  the  castle,  Hardress 


307 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

was  once  more  tempted  to  take  up  his  gun,  and  look  for  shore-fowl 
in  the  neighbourhood.  One  morning,  when  he  was  occupied  in 
drawing  a  charge  in  the  hall,  Falvey  came  running  in  to  let  him 
know  that  a  flock  of  May-birds  had  pitched  in  one  of  the  gullies  in 
the  creek,  which  was  now  almost  deserted  by  the  fallen  tide. 

'Are  there  many?'  said  Hardress,  a  little  interested. 

'Oceans!  oceans  of  'em,  sir,'  was  the  reply  of  the  figurative  valet. 

'Very  well,  do  you  take  this  bag,  and  follow  me  down  to  the 
shore.  I  think  we  shall  get  at  them  most  conveniently  from 
behind  the  lime-kiln.' 

This  was  a  commission  which  Falvey  executed  with  the  worst 
grace  in  the  world.  This  talkative  person  was,  in  fact,  a  perfect 
and  even  absurd  coward,  nor  did  he  consider  the  absence  of  any 
hostile  intention  as  a  security,  when  the  power  of  injury  was  in 
his  neighbourhood.  His  dread  of  firearms,  like  that  of  Friday, 
approached  to  a  degree  of  superstition,  and  it  would  appear  from 
his  conduct,  that  he  had  anything  but  a  steady  faith  in  the  common 
opinion  that  a  gun  must  throw  its  contents  in  the  direction  of  the 
bore.  Accordingly  it  was  always  with  considerable  reluctance 
and  apprehension  that  he  accompanied  his  young  master  on  his 
shooting  excursions.  He  followed  him  now  with  a  dejected  face, 
and  a  sharp  and  prudent  eye,  directed  ever  and  anon  at  the  loaded 
weapon  which  Hardress  balanced  in  his  hand. 

They  approached  the  game  under  cover  of  a  low,  ruined  building, 
which  had  been  once  used  as  a  lime-kiln,  and  now  served  as  a  blind 
to  those  who  made  it  an  amusement  to  scatter  destruction  among 
the  feathered  visitants  of  the  little  creek.  Arrived  at  this  spot, 
Hardress  perceived  that  he  could  take  the  quarry  at  a  better  advan- 
tage from  a  sandbank  at  some  distance  on  the  right.  He  moved 
accordingly  in  that  direction,  and  Falvey,  after  conjecturing  how 
he  might  best  get  out  of  harm's  way,  crept  into  the  ruined  kiln, 
and  took  his  seat  on  the  loose  stones  at  the  bottom.  The  walls, 
though  broken  down  on  every  side,  were  yet  of  a  sufficient  height 
to  conceal  his  person,  when  in  a  sitting  posture,  from  all  observation 
of  man  or  fowl.  Rubbing  his  hands  in  glee,  and  smiling  to  find 
himself  thus  snugly  ensconced  from  danger,  he  awaited  with  an 
anxiety,  not  quelled  indeed,  but  yet  somewhat  diminished,  the 
explosion  of  the  distant  engine  of  death. 

But  this  evii  genius,  envious  of  his  satisfaction,  found  means  of 
putting  this  tranquillity  to  nought.  Hardress  altered  his  judgment 

308 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

of  the  two  stations,  and  accordingly  crept  back  to  the  lime-kiln 
with  as  little  noise  as  he  had  used  in  leaving  it.  He  marvelled  at 
what  had  become  of  Falvey,  but  reserving  the  search  for  him  until 
he  had  done  his  part  upon  the  curlew,  he  went  on  his  knee,  and 
rested  the  barrel  of  his  piece  on  the  grass-covered  wall  of  the  ruin, 
in  such  a  manner  that  the  muzzle  was  two  inches  above  the  head 
of  the  unseen  and  smiling  and  unconscious  Falvey.  Having 
levelled  on  the  centre  of  the  flock,  he  fired,  and  an  uproar  ensued 
which  it  is  almost  hopeless  to  describe.  Half-a-dozen  of  the  birds 
fell,  without  hearing  the  shot,  several  fluttered  a  few  paces,  and  then 
sunk  gasping  in  the  slob.  The  great  mass  of  the  flock  rose  scream- 
ing into  the  calm  air,  and  were  chorused  by  the  whistling  of  myriads 
of  sea-larks,  red  shanks,  and  other  diminutive  water-fowl.  But 
the  most  alarming  strain  in  the  concert  was  played  by  poor  Falvey, 
who  gave  himself  up  for  dead  on  hearing  the  shot  fired  close  at  his 
ear  in  so  unexpected  a  manner.  He  sprung,  at  one  bound,  clear 
out  of  the  lime-kiln,  and  fell  flat  on  his  face  and  hands  upon  the 
short  grass,  roaring  and  kicking  his  heels  into  the  air,  like  one  in 
the  agonies  of  the  colica  pictonum.  Terrified  to  the  soul  by  this 
startling  incident,  Hardress  threw  down  his  gun,  and  fled  as  if  from 
the  face  of  a  fiend. 

In  the  meantime,  the  cries  of  the  prostrate  Falvey  attracted  to 
his  relief  a  stranger,  who  had  hitherto  lain  concealed  under  a  pro- 
jection of  the  bank.  He  jumped  up  on  the  wall  of  the  kiln,  and 
remained  gazing  for  some  moments  on  the  fallen  man,  with  an 
expression  which  partook  more  of  curiosity  than  of  compassion. 
Seeing  the  gun,  he  imagined  that  Falvey  had  fired  the  shot  himself, 
and  experienced  some  injury  from  the  recoil.  It  was  with  a  kind 
of  sneer,  therefore,  that  he  took  up  the  weapon,  and  proceeded  to 
question  the  sufferer. 

'What's  de  matter  wit  you,  man  alive?  What  makes  you  be 
roarin'  dat  way?' 

'I'm  hot! '  *  returned  Falvey  with  a  groan.  '  I'm  hot.  The  master 
holed  me  with  the  shot.  Will  I  get  the  priest?  Will  I  get  the 
priest  itself?' 

'  Where  did  he  hole  you  ? ' 

'There,  in  the  lime-kiln  this  minute.    Will  I  get  the  priest?' 

'I  mane,  where  are  you  hot?    In  what  part  o'  your  body?' 

'  Oyeh,  it  is  all  one,'  said  Falvey,  a  little  perplexed  by  the  question. 
*.An  Irish  preterite  for  the  word  hit. 

309 


'I  felt.it  in  the  very  middle  o'  my  heart.  Sure  I  know  I'm  a  gone 
man!' 

'How  do  you  know  it,  ayeh?  Straighten  yourself,  an'  sit  up  a 
bit.  I  don't  see  any  signs  of  a  hole.' 

Falvey  sat  up,  and  began  to  feel  his  person  in  various  places, 
moaning  the  whole  time  in  the  most  piteous  tone,  and  looking 
occasionally  on  his  hands,  as  if  expecting  to  find  them  covered 
with  blood.  After  a  minute  examination,  however,  no  such  symp- 
toms could  be  discovered. 

'A',  dere's  nottin'  de  matter  wit  you,  man,'  said  the  stranger. 
'Stand  up,  man,  you're  as  well  as  ever  you  wor.' 

'Faiks,  maybe  so,'  returned  Falvey,  rising  and  looking  about 
him  with  some  briskness  of  eye.  'But  sure  I  know,'  he  added, 
suddenly  drooping,  '  'tis  the  way  always  with  people  when  they're 
holed  by  a  gun,  they  never  feel  it  until  the  moment  they  dhrop.' 

'  Well,  an'  isn't  it  time  for  you  to  tink  of  it  when  you  begin  to  feel 
it?'  returned  the  stranger. 

'Faiks,  maybe  so,'  returned  Falvey,  with  increasing  confidence. 
'That  I  may  be  blest,'  he  added,  swinging  his  arms,  and  moving  a 
few  paces  with  greater  freedom — 'that  I  may  be  blest  if  I  feel  any 
pain ! — Faiks,  I  thought  I  was  hot.  But  there's  one  thing,  anyway. 
As  long  as  ever  I  live,  I  never  again  will  go  shooting  with  any  man, 
gentle  or  simple,  during  duration.' 

'Stay  a  minute,'  said  the  stranger;  'won't  you  go  out  for  the 
curlews?' 

'Go  out  for  'em  yourself,  an'  have  'em  if  you  like,'  returned 
Falvey,  'it's  bother  enough  I  got  with  'em,  for  birds.' 

He  took  up  the  gun  and  pouch,  and  walked  slowly  away,  while 
the  stranger,  after  slipping  off  his  shoes  and  stockings,  and  turning 
up  the  knees  of  his  under-garment,  walked  out  for  the  game.  He 
had  picked  up  one  or  two  of  the  birds,  and  was  proceeding  farther 
along  the  brink  of  the  gully,  when  a  sudden  shout  was  heard  upon 
the  rocky  shore  on  the  other  side  of  the  creek.  The  stranger 
started  and  looked,  like  a  frighted  deer,  in  that  direction,  where 
Falvey  beheld  a  party  of  soldiers  running  down  the  rocks,  as  if 
with  the  purpose  of  intercepting  his  passage  round  a  distant  point 
by  which  the  high-road  turned.  The  stranger,  possibly  aware  of 
their  intention,  left  his  shoes,  the  game,  and  all  behind  him,  and  fled 
rapidly  across  the  slob,  in  the  direction  of  the  point.  It  was  clear 
the  soldiers  could  not  overtake  him.  They  halted,  therefore,  on 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

the  shore,  and  levelling  their  pieces  with  deliberation,  fired  several 
shots  at  the  fugitive,  as  after  a  runaway  prisoner.  With  lips 
agape  with  horror,  Falvey  beheld  the  shining  face  of  the  mud  torn 
up  by  the  bullets  within  a  few  feet  of  the  latter.  He  still,  however, 
continued  his  course  unhurt,  and  was  not  many  yards  distant  from 
the  opposing  shore,  when  (either  caught  by  a  trip,  or  brought  down 
by  some  bullet,  better  aimed)  he  staggered,  and  fell  in  the  marl. 
He  rose  again,  and  again  sunk  down  upon  his  elbow,  panting  for 
breath,  and  overpowered  by  fatigue  and  fear.  Falvey  delayed 
to  see  no  more,  being  uncertain  at  whom  their  muskets  would 
be  next  directed.  Lowering  his  person,  as  far  as  might  be  con- 
sistent with  a  suitable  speed,  he  ran  along  the  hedgeways  in  the 
direction  of  the  castle. 

In  the  meantime,  Hardress,  full  of  horror  at  the  supposed 
catastrophe,  had  hurried  to  his  sleeping-room,  where  he  flung  him- 
self at  full  length  upon  the  bed,  and  sought,  but  found  not  relief, 
in  exclamations  of  terror  and  of  agony.  'What!'  he  muttered 
through  his  clenched  teeth,  'shall  my  hands  be  always  bloody? 
Can  I  not  move  but  death  must  dog  my  steps?  Must  I  only 
breathe  to  suffer  and  destroy?' 

A  low  and  broken  moan,  uttered  near  his  bedside,  made  him 
start  with  a  superstitious  apprehension.  He  looked  round,  and 
beheld  his  mother,  kneeling  at  a  chair,  her  face  pale,  excepting  the 
eyes,  which  were  inflamed  with  tears.  Her  hands  were  wreathed 
together,  as  if  with  a  straining  exertion,  and  sobs  came  thick  and 
fast  upon  her  breath,  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts  to  restrain  them. 
In  a  few  minutes,  while  he  remained  gazing  on  her  in  some  per- 
plexity, she  arose  from  her  knees,  and,  standing  by  his  bedside, 
laid  her  hand  quietly  upon  his  head. 

'I  have  been  trying  to  pray,'  she  said,  'but  I  fear  in  vain.  It 
was  a  selfish  prayer,  for  it  was  offered  up  for  you.  If  you  fear 
death  and  shame,  you  will  soon  have  cause  to  tremble.  For  a 
mother  who  loves  her  son,  all  guilty  as  he  is,  and  for  a  son  who 
would  not  see  his  parents  brought  to  infamy,  there  have  been 
fearful  tidings  here  since  morning.' 

Hardress  could  only  look  the  intense  anxiety  which  he  felt 
learn  what  those  tidings  were. 

'In  few  words,'  said  Mrs.  Cregan,  'the  dress  of  that  unhappy 
girl  has  been  recognised,  and  by  a  train  of  circumstances  (commanc 
yourself  awhile!)— circumstances  which  this  sick  head  of  mine  will 

3" 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

hardly  allow  me  to  detail,  suspicion  has  fallen  upon  your  former 
boatman  and  his  family.  Do  you  know  where  he  is?' 

'I  have  not  seen  him  since  the — the — I  know  not — but  my 
orders  were,  that  he  should  leave  the  country,  and  I  gave  him 
money  for  the  purpose.' 

'Thank  heaven  for  that!'  Mrs.  Cregan  exclaimed,  with  her  usual 
steady  energy,  while  she  clasped  her  hands  together,  and  looked 
upward  with  a  wrapt  fervour  of  expression.  The  action,  however, 
was  quickly  altered  to  a  chilly  shudder.  She  looked  suddenly  to 
the  earth,  veiling  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  as  if  a  rapid  light  had 
dazzled  her.  'Thank  heaven!'  she  repeated,  in  a  tone  of  terrified 
surprise.  'O  mighty  Being,  Origin  of  Justice,  and  Judge  of  the 
guilty,  forgive  me  for  that  impious  gratitude!  Oh,  Dora  Cregan, 
if  any  one  had  told  you  in  your  youth  that  you  should  one  day 
thank  heaven  to  find  a  murderer  safe  from  justice!  I  do  not  mean 
you,  my  child,'  she  said,  turning  to  Hardress;  'you  are  no  murderer.' 

Hardress  made  no  reply,  and  Mrs.  Cregan  remained  silent  for  a 
few  minutes,  as  if  deliberating  on  the  course  which  it  would  be 
necessary  for  her  to  adopt.  The  deception  practised  on  Anne 
Chute  was  not  among  the  least  of  those  circumstances  which  made 
her  situation  one  of  agonizing  perplexity.  But  her  fate  had  been 
already  decided,  and  it  would  be  only  to  make  the  ruin  of  her 
son  assured,  if  she  attempted  now  to  separate  the  destiny  of  Anne 
from  theirs. 

'We  must  hasten  this  marriage,'  Mrs.  Cregan  continued,  after 
a  silence  of  some  minutes,  'and,  in  the  meantime,  endeavour  to 
get  those  people,  the  Naughtens,  out  of  the  way.  They  will  be 
sought  for  without  delay.  Mr.  Warner  has  been  inquiring  for 
you,  that  he  might  obtain  some  information  of  your  boatman.  I 
told  him  that  you  had  parted  with  the  man  long  since,  and  that  you 
did  not  know  whither  he  had  gone.  Do  you  think  you  could 
sustain  an  interview  with  him?' 

Hardress,  who  was  now  sitting  upon  the  bedside,  pale,  and  with 
features  dragged  by  terror,  replied  to  this  question  by  a  chilly 
shudder,  and  a  vacant  stare. 

'We  must  keep  him  out,  then,'  said  his  mother,  '  or  if  he  must 
see  you,  it  shall  be  in  your  chamber.  There  is  still  one  way  by 
which  you  might  be  saved,  the  way  which  you  proposed  yourself, 
though  I  was  not  then  sufficiently  at  ease  to  perceive  its  advantages. 
Go  boldly  forward  and  denounce  this  wretch,  lay  all  the  information 

312 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

in  your  power  before  the  magistrate,  and  aid  the  officers  of  justice 
in  bringing  him  to  punishment.' 

Hardress  turned  his  dull  and  bloodshot  eyes  upon  his  mother, 
as  if  to  examine  whether  she  was  serious  in  this  proposition.  If 
a  corpse,  rigid  in  death,  could  be  stimulated  to  a  galvanic  laugh, 
one  might  expect  to  find  it  such  a  hideous  convulsion  as  Hardress 
used  on  discovering  that  she  did  not  mock. 

'No,  mother,'  he  said,  curbing  the  sardonic  impulse.  'I  am  not 
innocent  enough  for  that.' 

'Why  will  you  so  perversely  do  yourself  a  wrong?'  said  Mrs. 
Cregan.  'Neither  in  your  innocence,  nor  in  your  culpability,  do 
you  seem  to  form  a  proper  estimate  of  your  conduct.  You  are  not 
so  guilty  as — ' 

'Very  true,  mother,'  said  Hardress,  impatient  of  the  subject, 
and  cutting  it  short  with  a  burst  of  fierceness  scarcely  less  shocking 
than  his  laughter.  'If  the  plea  of  conscious  guilt  will  not  suffice, 
you  may  take  my  refusal  upon  your  own  ground.  I  am  too  inno- 
cent for  that.  I  am  not  fiend  enough  for  such  a  treachery.  Pray 
let  me  hear  no  more  of  it,  or  I  shall  sicken.  There's  some  one  has 
knocked  three  times  at  the  room-door.  I  am  quite  weary  of  playing 
the  traitor,  and  if  I  had  nothing  but  pure  heart-sickness  to  restrain 
me,  I  should  yet  long  for  a  reform.  My  brain  will  bear  no  more; 
a  single  crime  would  crush  it  now.  Again? — There's  some  one 
at  the  door.' 

'Well,  Hardress,  I  will  speak  with  you  of  this  at  night.' 

'With  all  my  heart.  You  say  things  sometimes  that  go  near  to 
drive  me  mad,  but  yet  you  always  talk  to  me  as  a  friend,  for  my 
own  sake,  and  kindly.  Mother!'  he  added,  suddenly  laying  his 
hand  on  her  arm,  as  she  passed  him,  and  as  the  light  fell  brighter 
on  her  thin  and  gloomy  features— '  mother,  how  changed  you  are 
since  this  unhappy  act!  You  are  worn  out  with  fears  and  sorrows. 
It  has  been  my  fate,  or  fault  (I  will  not  contend  for  the  distinction), 
to  scatter  poison  in  the  way  of  all  who  knew  me.  A  lost  love  for 
one;  for  another,  falsehood,  desertion,  death;  for  a  third,  duplicity 
and  ingratitude;  and  even  for  you,  my  mother,  ill  health,  a  sinking 
heart,  and  a  pining  frame.  I  can  promise  nothing  now.  My  mind 
is  so  distracted  with  a  thousand  images  and  recollections  (each  one 
of  which,  a  year  since,  I  would  have  thought  sufficient  to  unsettle 
my  reason),  that  I  know  not  how  to  offer  you  a  word  of  comfort. 
But  if  these  gloomy  days  should  be  destined  to  pass  away,  and 

3J3 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

(whether  by  penitence,  or  some  sudden  mercy)  my  heart  should 
once  again  be  visited  with  a  quieter  grief,  I  will  then  remember 
your  affection.' 

There  was  a  time  when  this  speech  would  have  been  moonlight 
music  to  the  ear  of  Mrs.  Cregan.  Now,  her  esteem  for  Hardress 
being  fled,  and  a  good  deal  of  self-reproach  brought  in  to  sour  the 
feeling  with  which  she  regarded  his  conduct,  it  was  only  in  his 
moments  of  danger,  of  anger,  or  distress,  that  her  natural  affections 
were  forcibly  aroused  in  his  behalf.  Still,  however,  it  did  not  fail 
to  strike  upon  her  heart.  She  sunk  weeping  upon  his  neck,  and 
loaded  him  with  blessings  and  caresses. 

'I  do  not  look  for  thanks,  Hardress,'  she  said,  at  length  disen- 
gaging herself,  as  if  in  reproof  of  her  weakness,  'because  I  do  the 
part  of  a  mother.  All  that  you  have  said,  my  child,  in  my  regard, 
is  very  vain  and  idle.  A  quiet,  at  least  a  happy,  fireside  is  a  bless- 
ing that  I  can  never  more  enjoy,  nor  do  I  even  hope  for  it.  It  is 
not  because  I  think  your  guilt  not  worthy  of  the  extreme  punish- 
ment of  the  laws,  that,  therefore,  I  should  deem  it  possible  we  can 
either  of  us  forget  our  share  in  the  horrid  deed  that  has  been  done. 
Let  us  not  disguise  the  truth  from  our  own  hearts.  We  are  a 
wretched  and  a  guilty  pair,  with  enough  of  sin  upon  our  hands 
to  make  our  future  life  a  load  of  fear  and  penitence.' 

'I  did  but  speak  it,'  said  the  son,  with  peevishness  of  tone,  'in 
consideration  of  your  suffering.' 

'I  wish,  Hardress,  my  child,  that  you  had  considered  me  a  little 
more  early.' 

'You  did  not  encourage  me  to  a  confidence,'  said  Hardress.  'You 
repressed  it.' 

'You  should  not,'  retorted  the  mother,  'have  needed  an  encour- 
agement, under  circumstances  so  decisive.  Married!  If  you  had 
breathed  a  word  of  it  to  me,  I  would  have  sooner  died  than  urged 
you  as  I  did.' 

'I  told  you  I  was  pledged.' 

'You  did:  ay,  there  indeed,  my  son,  your  reproach  strikes  home. 
I  thought  that  you  would  only  break  a  verbal  troth,  and  most  un- 
justly did  I  wish  that  you  should  break  it.  How  fearfully  has 
heaven  repaid  me  for  that  selfish  and  unfeeling  act!  But  you 
were  all  too  close  and  secret  for  me.  Go — go,  unhappy  boy;  you 
taunt  me  with  the  seduction  which  was  only  the  work  of  your  own 
shameful  passion,' 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

This  painful  dialogue,  which,  perhaps,  would  have  risen  to  a 
still  more  bitter  tone  of  recrimination,  was  broken  off  by  a  renewal 
of  the  summons  at  the  door.  It  appeared  as  if  the  applicant  for 
admission  had  gone  away  in  despair,  and  again  returned  after  a 
fruitless  search  elsewhere.  On  opening  the  door,  Mrs.  Cregan 
encountered  the  surly  visage  of  Dan  Dawley,  who  informed  her  in 
his  usual  gruff  and  laconic  phrase  that  her  presence  was  required 
in  the  ball-room; — such  was  the  name  given  to  that  apartment  in 
which  Hardress  had  made  to  her  a  confession  of  his  guilt.  When 
she  had  left  the  chamber,  Hardress,  who  grew  momently  more 
weak  and  ill,  prepared  himself  for  bed,  and  bade  the  old  steward 
send  him  one  of  the  servants.  This  commission  the  surly  func- 
tionary discharged,  on  returning  to  the  servants'  hall,  by  intimating 
his  master's  desire  to  Pat  Falvey,  who  had  entered  some  time  before. 

Mrs.  Cregan,  in  the  meantime,  proceeded  to  the  chamber  above 
mentioned,  which  she  could  only  reach  by  passing  through  the 
narrow  hall  and  winding  staircase  near  the  entrance.  The  former 
presented  a  scene  calculated  to  alarm  and  perplex  her.  A  number 
of  soldiers,  with  their  soaped  and  powdered  queues,  and  musket- 
barrels  shining  like  silver,  were  stuck  up  close  to  the  wall  on  either 
side,  like  the  wax  figures  in  the  shop  of  a  London  tailor.  On  the 
gravel,  before  the  door,  she  could  see  a  number  of  country  people, 
who  had  collected  about  the  door,  wondering  what  could  have 
brought '  the  army '  to  Castle  Chute.  From  the  door  of  the  kitchen 
and  servants'  hall,  a  number  of  heads  were  thrust  out,  with  faces 
indicative  of  a  similar  degree  of  astonishment  and  curiosity. 

Passing  through  this  formidable  array,  Mrs.  Cregan  ascended  the 
stairs,  and  was  admitted  at  the  door  of  the  ball-room  by  a  figure 
as  solemn  and  formidable  as  those  below.  The  interior  of  the 
room  presented  a  scene  of  still  more  startling  interest.  A  table 
was  spread  in  the  centre,  around  which  were  standing  Mr.  Warner 
the  magistrate,  Mr.  Barnaby  Cregan,  Captain  Gibson,  and  a 
clerk.  At  the  farther  end  of  the  table,  his  arm  suspended  in  a 
cotton  handkerchief,  stood  a  low,  squalid,  and  ill-shaped  figure,  his 
dress  covered  with  mud,  and  his  face,  which  was  soiled  with  blood 
and  marl,  rather  expressive  of  surprise  and  empty  wonder,  than  of 
apprehension  or  of  suffering. 

Mrs.  Cregan,  who  recognised  the  figure,  paused  for  a  moment  in 
a  revulsion  of  the  most  intense  anxiety,  and  then  walked  calmly 
forward  with  that  air  of  easy  dignity  which  she  could  assume  even 

315 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

when. her  whole  nature  was  at  war  within  her.  This  power  of 
veiling  her  inward  struggles  even  to  the  extremity  of  endurance, 
made  her  resemble  a  fair  tower  sapped  in  the  foundation,  which 
shows  no  symptom  of  a  weakness  up  to  the  very  instant  of  de- 
struction, and  is  a  ruin  even  before  the  sentiment  of  admiration 
has  faded  on  the  beholder's  mind. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

HOW  THE   DANGER   TO   THE   SECRET   OF   HARDRESS   WAS   AVERTED 
BY  THE  INGENUITY  OF  IRISH  WITNESSES 

MR.  WARNER  informed  her  that  it  was  no  longer  necessary 
that  her  son's  assistance  should  be  afforded  them,  as  they  had 
had  the  good  fortune  to  apprehend  the  object  of  their  suspicions. 
They  should,  however,  he  said,  be  compelled  to  await  the  arrival 
of  their  witnesses,  for  nothing  had  been  gained  by  putting  the 
fellow  on  his  examination.  His  answers  were  all  given  in  the  true 
style  of  an  Irish  witness,  seeming  to  evince  the  utmost  frankness, 
and  yet  invariably  leaving  the  querist  in  still  greater  perplexity  than 
before  he  put  the  question.  Every  hour,  he  said,  they  expected  the 
arrival  of  this  man's  brother  and  sister  from  Killarney,  and  they 
should  then  have  the  opportunity  of  confronting  them  with  him, 
and  with  their  previous  witnesses. 

'I  have  already  sent  off  a  messenger,'  continued  Mr.  Warner,  'to 
my  own  little  place,  to  see  if  they  have  yet  arrived,  in  order  that 
they  may  be  brought  hither  and  examined  on  the  spot.  The  in- 
convenience to  Mrs.  Chute,  I  hope  she  will  excuse,  and  my  prin- 
cipal reason  for  wishing  to  see  you,  Mrs.  Cregan,  was,  that  you 
might  bear  our  explanations  to  that  lady.  On  an  occasion  of  this 
kind,  all  good  subjects  are  liable  to  be  trespassed  on,  perhaps  more 
than  courtesy  might  warrant.' 

'I  will  answer  for  my  sister,'  said  Mrs.  Cregan  coldly;  'she  will 
not,  of  course,  withhold  any  accommodation  in  her  power.  But 
this  man — has  he  been  questioned,  sir  ? ' 

'He  has.' 

'Might  I  be  allowed  to  see  the  examination?' 

'  By  all  means,  Mrs.  Cregan.  Mr.  Houlahan,  will  you  hand  that 
book  to  the  lady?' 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

Mr.  Houlahan,  after  sticking  his  pen  behind  his  ear,  rose  and 
delivered  the  volume  accordingly,  with  a  smirk  and  bow,  which 
he  meant  for  a  wonder  of  politeness.  The  lady,  whose  thoughts 
were  busy  with  other  matters  than  with  Mr.  Houlahan's  gallantry, 
received  it,  nevertheless,  with  a  calm  dignity,  and  opening  her 
reading-glass,  stooped  to  the  page  which  that  gentleman  had 
pointed  out.  She  glanced  with  some  indifference  over  the  details 
of  the  Examination  of  Daniel  Mann,  while  she  devoured  its  mean- 
ing with  an  agonizing  closeness  of  scrutiny.  The  passage  which 
concerned  her  most  was  the  following: 

' — Questioned,  if  he  were  known  to  the  deceased  Eily  O'Connor; 
answereth,  He  hath  met  such  a  one  in  Garryowen,  but  knoweth 
nothing  farther.  Questioned,  If  he  heard  of  her  death;  answereth, 
Nay.  Questioned,  If  he  knoweth  a  certain  Lowry  Looby,  living; 
answereth,  Yes.  Questioned,  Whether  Eily  O'Connor  did  not 
lodge  for  a  time  in  the  house  of  Philip  Naughten,  Killarney; 
answereth,  How  should  he  be  aware  of  his  brother-in-law's  lodgers? 
Saith,  He  knoweth  not.  Questioned,  If  he  were  not  present  in  said 
Naughten's  house,  when  said  Eily,  deceased,  said  Looby  being 
then  in  Naughten's  kitchen,  did  give  a  letter  to  Poll  Naughten, 
sister  to  prisoner,  addressed  to  Dunat  O'Leary,  hair-cutter,  Garry- 
owen, and  containing  matter  in  the  handwriting  of  said  Eily; 
answereth,  How  should  he  (prisoner)  see  through  a  stone  wall? 
Saith,  He  was  in  the  kitchen.  Saith,  Looby  was  a  fool,  and  that 
his  eyes  were  not  fellows.  Saith,  He  knoweth  not  who  was  in  the 
said  inner  room.  Questioned,  Why  he  was  discharged  out  of  the 
employment  of  his  master,  Mr.  Hardress  Cregan;  answereth,  He 
knoweth  not.  Questioned,  Where  he  hath  been  residing  since  he 
left  his  master's  sen-ice;  answereth,  It  is  a  token  that  examinant 
doth  not  know,  or  he  would  not  ask;  and  the  like  impertinent  and 
futile  answers,  with  sundry  speeches  little  to  the  purpose,  hath  the 
prisoner  responded  to  all  subsequent  inquiries.' 

With  a  feeling  of  relief,  Mrs.  Cregan  returned  the  book  to  the 
clerk,  and  glancing  towards  the  prisoner,  observed  that  his  eye  was 
fixed  on  hers  with  a  look  of  shrewd  and  anxious  inquiry.  To  this 
glance  she  returned  one  equally  comprehensive  in  its  meaning.  It 
told  him  she  was  fully  in  the  counsels  of  her  son,  and  prepared 
him  to  be  guided  by  her  eye. 

At  the  same  moment  the  sentinel  was  heard  presenting  arms  al 
the  door,  and  a  corporal  entered  to  say  that  Mr.  Warner's  messen- 

3'7 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

ger  had  returned,  and  that  the  witnesses  might  be  expected  in  a 
few  minutes. 

'All's  right,  then,'  said  Mr.  Warner,  who  entered  on  a  scrutiny  of 
this  kind  with  the  same  professional  gout  which  might  make 
Xenophon  find  excitement  amid  his  difficulties,  or  Antony  in  the 
intricacies  of  the  American  retreat.  'Remove  the  prisoner.  We 
shall  examine  them  apart,  and  see  if  their  stories  will  bear  the 
jangling.  If  they  are  all  as  much  given  to  the  negative  as  this 
fellow,  I  am  afraid  we  shall  find  it  hard  to  make  them  jar.' 

This  was  a  moment  of  intense  anxiety  to  Mrs.  Cregan.  She  saw 
no  probability  of  being  able  to  communicate  with  the  prisoners  (for 
such  were  all  the  witnesses  at  present),  and  she  comprehended  all 
the  importance  of  preventing,  at  least,  the  chance  of  Hardress's 
name  being  mingled  up  with  the  account  of  the  unknown  visitor 
at  the  cottage  of  the  Naughtens. 

A  little  experience,  however,  in  the  proceedings  of  Irish  law 
courts  would  have  given  her  more  courage  and  comfort  on  this 
subject.  The  peasantry  of  Ireland  have  for  centuries  been  at  war 
with  the  laws  by  which  they  are  governed,  and  watch  their  opera- 
tion in  every  instance  with  a  jealous  eye.  Even  guilt  itself,  how- 
ever naturally  atrocious,  obtains  a  commiseration  in  their  regard 
from  the  mere  spirit  of  opposition  to  a  system  of  government  which 
they  consider  as  unfriendly.  There  is  scarcely  a  cottage  in  the 
South  of  Ireland  where  the  very  circumstance  of  legal  denunciation 
would  not  afford  to  even  a  murderer  a  certain  passport  to  conceal- 
ment and  protection.  To  the  same  cause  may  be  traced,  in  all 
likelihood,  the  shrewdness  of  disguise,  the  closeness,  the  affected 
dulness,  the  assumed  simplicity,  and  all  the  inimitable  subtleties  of 
evasion  and  of  wile  which  an  Irish  peasant  can  display  when  he  is 
made  to  undergo  a  scene  of  judicial  scrutiny,  and  in  which  he  will 
frequently  display  a  degree  of  gladiatorial  dexterity  that  would 
throw  the  spirit  of  Machiavelli  into  ecstasies. 

While  Mrs.  Cregan  remained,  endeavouring  to  control  the  work- 
ings of  her  apprehension,  a  bustle  was  heard  outside  the  door,  in 
which  the  sound  of  a  female  voice,  raised  high  in  anger  and  remon- 
strance, overtopped  the  rest  in  loudness,  like  a  soprano  voice  in  a 
chorus. 

'Let  me  in!'  she  exclaimed  in  a  fierce  tone.  'Do  you  want  to 
thrust  your  scarlet  jacket  between  the  tree  and  the  rind?  Let  me 
in,  you  tall  ramroad,  or  I'll  pull  the  soap  an'  powder  out  of  your 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

wig.  If  I  had  you  on  the  mountains,  I'd  cut  the  pig's  tail  from 
your  pole,  an'  make  a  show  o'  you.  Do,  do — draw  your  bagnet  on 
me,  you  cowardly  object!  It's  like  the  white  blood  o'  the  whole  of 
ye!  I  know  fifty  lads  of  your  size  that  would  think  as  little  of  trip- 
ping you  upon  a  fair  green,  and  making  a  high-road  of  your  pow- 
dered carcass,  as  I  do  of  snapping  my  fingers  in  your  face!  That 
for  your  rusty  bagnet,  you  woman's  match ! ' 

Here  she  burst  into  the  room,  and  confronted  the  magistrate, 
while  the  sentinel  muttered  as  he  recovered  his  guard,  'Well, 
you're  a  rum  one,  you  are,  as  ever  I  see.' 

'Danny,  a'ra  gal!  Oh  vo,  ohone,  achree,  asthora!  is  that  the 
way  with  you  ?  What  did  you  do  to  'em  ?  what's  the  matther  ? ' 

*  Dat  de  hands  may  stick  to  me,  Poll,  if  I  know,'  returned  the 
prisoner,  while  she  moaned  and  wept  over  him  with  a  sudden 
passion  of  grief.  'Dey  say  'tis  to  kill  some  one,  I  done.  Dey  say 
one  Eily  O'Connor  was  a  lodger  of  ours  westwards,  an'  dat  I  tuk 
her  out  of  a  night  an'  murdered  her.  Isn't  dat  purty  talk  ?  Sure 
you  know  yourself  we  had  no  lodgers?' 

'Remove  that  prisoner,'  said  Mr.  Warner;  'he  must  not  be  pres- 
ent at  her  examination.' 

'I'll  engage  I  have  no  longin'  for  it,'  returned  Danny;  'she 
knows  right  well  that  it  is  all  talks,  an'  'tis  well  I  have  a  friend 
at  last  dat'll  see  me  out  o'  trouble.' 

Danny  was  removed,  and  the  examination  of  Pell  Naughton  was 
commenced  by  the  magistrate.  She  had  got  but  one  hint  from  her 
brother  to  guide  her  in  her  answers,  and  on  all  other  topics  she 
came  to  the  resolution,  in  secret,  of  admitting  as  little  as  possible. 

'Your  name  is  Poll  Naughten?  Stay,  she  is  not  sworn.  Hand 
her  the  book.' 

She  took  the  volume  with  an  air  of  surly  assurance,  and  repeated 
the  form  of  the  oath. 

'She  did  not  kiss  it,'  whispered  Mr.  Houlahan,  with  a  sagacious 
anxiety,  '  she  only  kissed  her  thumb.  I  had  my  eye  upon  her.' 

'Had  you?  Well,  gi'  me  the  book,  'till  I  plase  that  gentleman. 
Is  that  the  way  you'd  like  to  lip  the  leather?'  she  said,  after  a 
smack  that  went  off  like  a  detonating  cap.  'Is  that  done  to  your 
liking,  sir?' 

Mr.  Houlahan  treated  this  query  with  silence,  and  the  examm; 

tion  proceeded. 

'Poll  Naughten  is  your  name,  is  it  not?' 

319 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'Polly  Mann  they  christened  me,  for  want  of  a  betther,  an'  for 
want  of  a  worse,  I  took  up  with  Naughten.' 

'You  live  in  the  Gap  of  Dunlough?' 

'Iss,  when  at  home.' 

'Did  you  know  the  deceased  Eily  O'Connor?' 

'Eily  who?' 

'O'Connor!' 

'I  never  knew  a  girl  o'  that  name.' 

'Take  care  o'  your  answers.    We  have  strong  evidence.' 

'If  you  have  it  as  sthrong  as  a  cable,  you  may  make  the  most  of 
it.  You  have  my  answer.' 

'Do  you  know  a  person  of  the  name  of  Looby?' 

'I  do,  to  be  sure,  for  my  sins,  I  believe.' 

'  Do  you  remember  his  being  in  your  house  in  the  end  of  the  last 
autumn  ? ' 

'I  do  well,  an'  I'd  give  him  his  tay  the  same  night,  if  it  wasn't 
for  raisons.' 

'  Did  you  give  him  a  letter  on  that  evening  ? ' 

'He  made  more  free  than  welcome,  a  dale.    I  can  tell  him  that.' 

'Answer  my  question.     Did  you  give  him  a  letter?' 

'Oyeh,  many's  the  thing  I  gave  him,  an'  I'm  only  sorry  I  didn't 
give  him  a  thing  more  along  with  'em,  an'  that  was  a  good  flaking.' 

'Well,  I  don't  deny  you  credit  for  your  good  wishes  in  that 
respect,  but  still  I  wait  to  have  my  question  answered.  Did  you 
give  Looby  a  letter  on  that  evening  ? ' 

'Listen  to  me,  now,  plase  your  honour.  That  the  head  may  go 
to  the  grave  with  me — ' 

'Those  asseverations,  my  good  woman,  are  quite  superfluous. 
You  should  remember  you  are  on  your  oath.' 

'Well,  I  am,  sure  I  know  I  am  upon  my  oath,  an'  as  I  am  upon  it, 
an'  by  the  vartue  o'  that  oath,  I  swear  I  never  swopped  a  word  with 
Lowry  Looby  from  that  day  to  this.' 

'Whew!'  said  the  magistrate,  'there's  an  answer.  Hear  me, 
my  good  woman.  If  you  won't  speak  out,  we  shall  find  a  way  to 
make  you  speak.' 

'No  use  in  wasting  blows  upon  a  willing  horse.  I  can  do  no 
more  than  speak  to  the  best  of  my  ability.' 

'Very  well.  I  ask  you  again,  therefore,  whether  Looby  received 
a  letter  from  you  on  that  evening?' 

'Does  Lowry  say  I  gev  him  a  letter?' 

320 


'You  will  not  answer,  then?' 

'To  be  sure  I  will.     What  am  I  here  for?' 

'To  drive  me  mad,  I  believe.' 

'Faiks,  I  can't  help  you,'  said  Poll,  'when  you  won't  listen  to 
me.' 

'Well,  well,  speak  on.' 

'I  will,  then,  without  a  word  of  a  lie.  I'll  tell  you  that  whole 
business,  an'  let  Lowry  himself  conthradict  me  if  he  daar  to  do  it. 
'Tis  as  good  as  six  years  ago  now  since  I  met  that  boy  at  one  o'  the 
Hewsan's  wakes.' 

'Well,  what  has  that  to  do  with  an  answer  to  a  plain  question?' 

'Easy  a  minute,  can't  you,  an'  I'll  tell  you.  He  behaved  very 
polished  that  night,  an'  I  seen  no  more  of  him  until  the  day  you 
spake  of,  when  he  come  into  the  cottage  from  Killarney.' 

'Woman,'  said  the  magistrate,  'remember  that  you  have  sworn 
to  tell  the  whole  truth — not  only  the  truth,  but  the  whole  truth.' 

'Ah,  then,  gentlemen  an'  lady,  d'ye  hear  this?  Did  anybody 
ever  hear  the  peer  o'  that?  Sure  it's  just  the  whole  truth  I'm 
tellin'  him,  an'  he  won't  listen  to  the  half  of  it.' 

'  Go  on,'  said  Mr.  Warner,  in  a  tone  of  resignation. 

'Sure  that's  what  I  want  to  do,  if  I'd  be  let.  I  say  this,  an'  I'll 
stand  to  it,  Lowry  gave  me  impidence  that  I  wouldn't  stand  from 
his  masther,  an'  I  did  (let  him  make  the  most  of  it),  I  admit  it,  I 
did  give  him  a  sthroke  or  two.  I  did.  I  admit  it.' 

'And  after  the  sthrokes,  as  you  call  'em,  you  gave  him  a  letter?' 

•Whatletther?' 

'I  see;  you  are  very  copious  of  your  admissions.  Are  you 
Philip  Naughten's  wife  ? ' 

'I  am.' 

'Aye,  now  we're  upon  smooth  ground.  You  can  give  an  answer 
when  it  suits  you.  I'm  afraid  you  are  too  many  for  me.  What 
shall  we  do  with  this  communicative  person?'  he  said,  turning  to 
the  other  gentlemen. 

'Remand  her,'  said  Captain  Gibson,  whose  face  was  purple 
from  suppressed  laughter,  'and  let  us  have  the  husband.' 

'With  all  my  heart,'  returned  Mr.  Warner.  'Take  that  woman 
into  another  room,  and  bring  up  Philip  Naughten.  Take  care, 
moreover,  that  they  do  not  speak  upon  the  way.' 

Poll  was  removed,  a  measure  which  she  resented  by  shrill  and 
passionate  remonstrances,  affecting  to  believe  herself  very  ill- 

321 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

treated.  Her  husband  was  next  admitted,  and  from  his  humble, 
timid,  and  deprecating  manner,  at  once  afforded  the  magistrate 
some  cause  of  gratulation;  and  Mrs.  Cregan  of  deep  and  increasing 
anxiety. 

He  approached  the  table  with  a  fawning  smile  upon  his  coarse 
features,  and  a  helpless,  conciliating  glance  at  every  individual 
around  him. 

'Now  we  shall  have  something,'  said  Mr.  Warner;  'this  fellow 
has  a  more  tractable  eye.  Your  name  is  Philip  Naughten,  is  it  not  ? ' 

The  man  returned  an  answer  in  Irish,  which  the  magistrate  cut 
short  in  the  middle. 

'Answer  me  in  English,  friend.  We  speak  no  Irish  here.  Is 
your  name  Philip  Naughten?' 

'Tha  wish,  vourneen — ' 

'Come — come — English.  Swear  him  to  know  whether  he  does 
not  understand  English.  Can  you  speak  English,  fellow?' 

'Not  a  word,  plase  your  honour.' 

A  roar  of  laughter  succeeded  this  escapade,  to  which  the  prisoner 
listened  with  a  wondering  and  stupid  look.  Addressing  himself 
in  Irish  to  Mr.  Cregan,  he  appeared  to  make  an  explanatory  speech, 
which  was  accompanied  by  a  slight  expression  of  indignation. 

'  What  does  the  fellow  say  ? '  asked  Mr.  Warner. 

'Why,'  said  Cregan  with  a  smile,  'he  says  he  will  admit  that  he 
couldn't  be  hung  in  English  before  his  face,* — but  he  does  not 
know  enough  of  the  language  to  enable  him  to  tell  his  story  in 
English.' 

'Well,  then,  I  suppose  we  must  have  it  in  Irish.  Mr.  Houlahan, 
will  you  act  as  interpreter?' 

The  clerk,  who  thought  it  genteel  not  to  know  Irish,  bowed,  and 
declared  himself  unqualified. 

'Wisha,  then,'  said  a  gruff  voice  at  a  little  distance,  in  a  dark 
corner  of  the  room,  '  it  isn't  but  what  you  had  opportunities  enough 
of  learning  it.  If  you  went  in  foreign  parts,  what  would  they  say 
to  you,  do  you  think,  when  you'd  tell  'em  you  didn't  know  the 
language  o'  the  counthry  where  you  were  born?  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed  o'  yourself,  so  you  ought.' 

*  A  common  phrase,  meaning  that  the  individual  understood 
enough  of  the  language  to  refute  any  calumny  spoken  in  his  presence, 
which,  if  uncontradicted,  might  leave  him  in  danger  of  the  halter. 
The  acute  reader  may  detect  in  this  pithy  idiom  a  meaning  charac- 
teristic of  the  country  in  which  it  is  used. 

322 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

This  speech,  which  proceeded  from  the  unceremonious  Dan 
Dawley,  produced  some  smiling  at  the  expense  of  the  euphuistic 
secretary,  after  which  the  steward  himself  was  sworn  to  discharge 
the  duties  of  the  office  in  question. 

The  preliminary  queries  having  been  put  and  answered,  the 
interpreter  proceeded  to  ask,  at  the  magistrate's  suggestion,  whether 
the  witness  was  acquainted  with  the  deceased  Eily  O'Connor? 

But  if  it  had  been  the  policy  of  Mrs.  Naughten  to  admit  as  little 
as  possible,  it  seemed  to  be  the  policy  of  her  husband  to  admit 
nothing  at  all.  The  subterfuge  of  the  former  in  denying  a  knowl- 
edge of  Eily  under  her  maiden  name  (which,  she  imagined,  saved 
her  from  the  guilt  of  perjury)  was  an  idea  too  brilliant  for  her 
husband.  He  gaped  upon  the  interpreter  in  silence  for  some 
moments,  and  then  looked  on  the  magistrate  as  if  to  gather  the 
meaning  of  the  question. 

'  Repeat  it  for  him,'  said  the  latter. 

Dawley  did  so. 

'  'Tis  the  answer  he  makes  me,  plase  your  honour,'  he  said,  'that 
he's  a  poor  man  that  lives  by  industhering.' 

'That's  no  answer.  Repeat  the  question  once  more,  and  tell 
him  I  shall  commit  him  for  trial  if  he  will  not  answer  it.' 

Again  the  question  was  put,  and  listened  to  with  the  same  plod- 
ding, meditative  look,  and  answered  with  a  countenance  of  honest 
grief,  and  an  apparent  anxiety  to  be  understood,  which  would  have 
baffled  the  penetration  of  any  but  a  practised  observer.  So  earnest 
was  his  manner,  that  Mr.  Warner  really  believed  he  was  returning 
a  satisfactory  answer.  But  he  was  disappointed. 

'He  says,'  continued  the  interpreter,  'that  when  he  was  a  young 
man,  he  rented  a  small  farm  from  Mr.  O'Connor,  of  Crag-beg, 
near  Tralee.  He  has  as  much  thricks  in  him,  plase  your  honour, 
as  a  rabbit.  I'd  as  lieve  be  brakin'  stones  to  a  paviour  as  putting 
questions  to  a  rogue  of  his  kind.' 

Threats,  promises  of  favour,  lulling  queries,  and  moral  expedients 
of  every  kind  were  used  to  draw  him  out  into  the  communicative 
frankness  which  was  desired.  But  he  remained  as  unimpressible 
as  adamant.  He  could  or  would  admit  nothing  more  than  that  he 
was  a  poor  man  who  lived  by  his  industry,  and  that  he  had  rented 
a  small  farm  from  Mr.  O'Connor,  of  Crag-beg. 

The  prisoners,  therefore,  after  a  short  consultation,  were  all  re- 
manded, in  order  that  time  might  be  afforded  for  confronting  them 

323 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

with  the  friends  of  the  unhappy  Eily.  Mrs.  Cregan,  with  the 
feeling  of  one  who  has  stood  all  day  before  a  burning  furnace, 
hurried  to  the  room  of  Hardress  to  indulge  the  tumult  which  was 
gathering  in  her  bosom;  and  the  gentlemen,  by  a  special  invitation 
(which  could  no  more  be  declined  without  offense,  in  the  Ireland  of 
those  days,  than  in  a  Persian  cottage),  adjourned  to  the  consola- 
tions of  Mrs.  Chute's  dining-parlour.  Separate  places  of  con- 
finement were  allotted  to  the  three  prisoners;  a  sentinel  was  placed 
over  each,  and  the  remainder  of  the  party,  notwithstanding  the 
remonstrances  of  Captain  Gibson,  were  all  entertained  like  princes 
in  the  servants'  hall. 


CHAPTER   XL 

HOW   HARDRESS   TOOK  A   DECISIVE   STEP   FOR   HIS   OWN   SECURITY 

THE  hospitalities  of  Castle  Chute  were  on  this  evening  called 
into  active  exercise.  If  the  gravest  occasion  of  human  life, 
the  vigil  of  the  dead,  was  not  in  those  days  always  capable  of  re- 
straining the  impetuous  spirit  of  enjoyment  so  much  indulged  in 
Irish  society,  how  could  it  be  expected  that  a  mere  anxiety  for  the 
interests  of  justice  could  interrupt  the  flow  of  their  social  gaiety? 
Before  midnight,  the  house  rang  with  laughter,  melody,  and  up- 
roar, and  in  an  hour  after,  every  queue  in  the  servants'  hall  was 
brought  into  a  horizontal  position.  Even  the  three  that  stalked  on 
guard  were  said  to  oscillate  on  their  posts  with  an  ominous  motion, 
as  the  bells  in  churches  forbode  their  fall  when  shaken  by  an 
earthquake. 

Hardress  continued  too  unwell  to  make  his  appearance,  and  this 
circumstance  deprived  the  company  of  the  society  of  Anne  Chute, 
and  indeed  of  all  the  ladies,  who  took  a  quiet  and  rather  mournful 
cup  of  tea  by  the  drawing-room  fire.  The  wretched  subject  of  their 
solicitude  lay  burning  on  his  bed,  and  listening  with  the  ears  of  a 
dreaming  maniac  to  the  boisterous  sounds  of  mirth  that  proceeded 
from  the  distant  parlour. 

The  place  in  which  his  former  boatman  was  confined  had  been 
a  stable,  but  was  now  become  too  ruinous  for  use.  It  was  small, 
and  roughly  paved,  The  rack  and  manger  were  yet  attached  to 

324 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

the  wall,  and  a  few  slates,  displaced  upon  the  roof,  admitted  cer- 
tain glimpses  of  moonshine,  which  fell  cold  and  lonely  on  the 
rough,  unplastered  wall  and  eaves,  making  the  house  illustrious, 
like  that  of  Sixtus  the  Fifth.  Below,  on  a  heap  of  loose  straw,  sat 
the  squalid  prisoner,  warming  his  fingers  over  a  small  fire,  heaped 
against  the  wall;  and  listening  in  silence  to  the  unsteady  tread  of 
the  sentinel,  as  he  strode  back  and  forward  before  the  stable-door, 
and  hummed,  with  an  air  of  suppressed  and  timid  joviality,  the 
words: 

'We  won't  go  home  till  morning, 
We  won't  go  home  till  morning, 
We  won't  go  home  till  morning, 
Until  the  dawn  appears  I' 

A  small  square  window,  closed  with  a  wooden  bar  and  shutters, 
was  to  be  found  above  the  rack,  and  opened  on  a  hay-yard,  which 
being  raised  considerably  above  the  level  of  the  stable  floor,  lay  only 
a  few  feet  beneath  this  aperture.  Danny  Mann  was  in  the  act  of 
devouring  a  potato  reeking  hot,  which  he  had  cooked  in  the  embers, 
when  a  noise  at  the  window  made  him  start,  and  set  his  ears  like 
a  watchdog.  It  was  repeated.  He  stood  on  his  feet,  and  crept 
softly  into  a  darker  corner  of  the  stable,  partly  in  superstitious 
apprehension,  and  partly  in  obedience  to  an  impulse  of  natural 
caution.  In  a  few  minutes  one  of  the  shutters  was  put  gently 
back,  and  a  flood  of  mild  light  was  poured  into  the  prison.  The 
shadow  of  a  hand  and  head  were  thrown  with  great  distinctness  of 
outline  on  the  opposing  wall;  the  other  shutter  was  put  back,  with 
the  same  caution,  and  in  a  few  moments  nearly  the  whole  aperture 
was  again  obscured,  as  if  by  the  body  of  some  person  entering. 
Such,  in  fact,  was  the  case;  and  the  evident  substantiality  of  the 
figure  did  not  remove  the  superstitious  terrors  of  the  prisoner, 
when  he  beheld  a  form  wrapped  in  white  descending  by  the 
bars  of  the  rack,  after  having  made  the  window  close  again,  and 
the  apartment,  in  appearance  at  least,  more  gloomy  than  ever. 

The  intruder  stood  at  length  upon  the  floor,  and  the  face,  which 
was  revealed  in  the  brown  firelight,  was  that  of  Hardress  Cregan. 
The  ghastliness  of  his  mouth  and  teeth,  the  wildness  of  his  eyes, 
and  the  strangeness  of  his  attire  (for  he  had  only  wrapped  the 
counterpane  around  his  person),  might,  in  the  eyes  of  a  stranger, 
have  confirmed  the  idea  of  a  supernatural  appearance.  But  these 
circumstances  only  tended  to  arouse  the  sympathy  and  old  attach- 

325 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

ment  of  his  servant.  Danny  Mann  advanced  towards  him  slowly, 
his  hands  wreathed  together,  and  extended  as  far  as  the  sling 
which  held  the  wounded  arm  would  allow,  his  jaw  dropped,  half 
in  pity  and  half  in  fear,  and  his  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

'Masther  Hardress,'  he  said  at  length,  'is  it  you  I  see  dat  way?' 

Hardress  remained  for  some  time  motionless  as  a  statue,  as  if 
endeavouring  to  summon  up  all  his  corporeal  energies  to  support 
him  in  the  investigation  which  he  was  about  to  make. 

'Won't  you  speak  to  me,  masther?'  continued  the  boatman, 
'won't  you  speak  a  word  itself?  'Twas  all  my  endeavour  since  I 
came  hether  to  thry  an'  get  'em  to  let  me  speak  to  you.  Say  a 
word,  masther,  if  it  is  only  to  tell  me  'tis  yourself  that's  there!' 

'Where  is  Eily?'  murmured  Hardress,  still  without  moving,  and 
in  a  tone  that  seemed  to  come  from  the  recess  of  his  breast,  like  a 
sound  from  a  sepulchre. 

The  boatman  shrank  aside,  as  if  from  the  eye  of  Justice  itself. 
So  suddenly  had  the  question  struck  upon  his  conscience,  that  the 
inquirer  was  obliged  to  repeat  it,  before  he  could  collect  his  breath 
for  an  answer. 

'Masther  Hardress,  I  tought,  after  I  parted  you  dat  time — ' 

'Where  is  Eily?'  muttered  Hardress,  interrupting  him. 

'Only  listen  to  me,  sir,  one  moment — ' 

'Where  is  Eily?' 

'Oh,  vo!  vo!— ' 

Hardress  drew  the  counterpane  around  his  head,  and  remained 
for  several  minutes  silent  in  the  same  attitude.  During  that  time 
the  drapery  was  scarcely  seen  to  move,  and  yet  hell  raged  beneath 
it.  A  few  moans  of  deep  but  smothered  agony  were  all  that  might 
be  heard  from  time  to  time.  So  exquisite  was  the  sense  of  suffering 
which  these  sounds  conveyed,  that  Danny  sank  trembling  on  his 
knees,  and  responded  to  them  with  floods  of  tears  and  sobbing. 

'Masther  Hardress,'  he  said;  'if  there's  anything  that  I  can  do  to 
make  your  mind  aisy,  say  the  word.  I  know  dis  is  my  own  busi- 
ness, an'  no  one  else's.  An'  if  dey  find  out,  itself,  dey'll  never  be 
one  straw  de  wiser  of  who  advised  me  to  it.  If  you  tink  I'd  tell, 
you  don't  know  me.  Dey  may  hang  me  as  high  as  dey  like; — dey 
may  flake  de  life  out  o'  me,  if  dey  plase,  but  dey  never'll  get  a  word 
outside  my  lips  of  what  it  was  dat  made  me  do  it.  Didn't  dey  try 
me  to-day,  an'  didn't  I  give  'em  a  sign  o'  what  I'd  do?' 

'Peace,  hypocrite!'  said  Hardress,  disgusted  at  a  show  of  feeling 

326 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

to  which  he  gave  no  credit.  'Be  still,  and  hear  me.  For  many 
years  back,  it  has  been  my  study  to  heap  kindnesses  upon  you. 
For  which  of  those  was  it  that  you  came  to  the  determination  of 
involving  me  in  ruin,  danger,  and  remorse  for  all  my  future  life, — 
a  little  all,  it  may  be,  certainly?' 

It  would  seem  from  the  manner  in  which  Danny  gaped  and  gazed 
on  his  master  while  he  said  these  words,  that  a  reproach  was  one  of 
the  last  things  he  had  expected  to  receive  from  Hardress.  Aston- 
ishment, blended  with  something  like  indignation,  took  the  place  of 
the  compassion  which  before  was  visible  upon  his  countenance. 

'I  don't  know  how  it  is,  Masther  Hardress,'  he  said.  'Dcre  are 
some  people  dat  it  is  hard  to  plase.  Do  you  remember  saying  any- 
ting  to  me  at  all  of  a  time  in  de  room  at  de  masther's  at  Killarney, 
Masther  Hardress?  Do  you  remember  givin'  me  a  glove  at  all? 
I  had  my  token  surely  for  what  I  done.' 

So  saying,  he  drew  the  glove  from  the  folds  of  his  waistcoat,  and 
handed  it  to  his  master.  But  the  latter  rejected  it  with  a  revulsion 
of  strong  dislike. 

'I  tought  I  had  ears  to  hear  dat  time,  an'  brains  to  understand,' 
said  Danny,  as  he  replaced  the  fatal  token  in  his  bosom, '  an'  I'm 
sure  it  was  no  benefit  to  me  dat  dere  should  be  a  hue  and  cry  over 
de  mountains  after  a  lost  lady,  an'  a  chance  of  a  hempen  cravat  for 
my  trouble.  But  I  had  my  warrant.  Dat  was  your  very  word, 
Masther  Hardress,  warrant,  wasn't  it  ?  "  Well,  when  you  go,"  says 
you,  "here  is  your  warrant."  And  you  ga'  me  de  glove.  Worn't 
dem  your  words?' 

' But  not  for  death,'  said  Hardress.     'I  did  not  say  for  death.' 

'I  own  you  didn't,'  returned  Danny,  who  was  aroused  by  what 
he  considered  a  shuffling  attempt  to  escape  out  of  the  transaction. 
'I  own  you  didn't.  I  felt  for  you,  an'  I  wouldn't  wait  for  you  to 
say  it.  But  did  you  mean  it?' 

'No,'  Hardress  exclaimed,  with  a  burst  of  sudden  energy.  'As 
I  shall  answer  it  in  that  bright  heaven,  I  did  not.  If  you  crowd  in 
among  my  accusers  at  the  judgment-seat,  and  charge  me  with  that 
crime,  to  you,  and  to  all,  I  shall  utter  the  same  disclaimer  that  I  do 
at  present.  I  did  not  mean  to  practise  on  her  life.  As  I  shall  meet 
with  her  before  that  Judge,  I  did  not.  I  even  bade  you  to  avoid  it, 
Danny.  Did  I  not  warn  you  not  to  touch  her  life?' 

'You  did,'  said  Danny,  with  a  scorn  which  made  him  eloquenl 
beyond  himself,  'an'  your  eye  looked  murder  while  you  said  it. 

327 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

After  dis,  I  never  more  will  look  in  any  man's  face  to  know  what  he 
mains.  After  dis,  I  won't  believe  my  senses.  If  you'll  persuade  me 
to  it,  I'll  own  dat  dere  is  noting  as  I  see  it.  You  may  tell  me  I  don't 
stand  here,  nor  you  dere,  nor  dat  de  moon  is  shining  trough  dat 
roof  above  us,  nor  de  fire  burning  at  my  back,  an'  I'll  not  gainsay 
you,  after  dis.  But  listen  to  me,  Masther  Hardress.  As  sure  as  dat 
moon  is  shining,  an'  dat  fire  burning;  an'  as  sure  as  I'm  here,  an' 
you  dere,  so  sure  de  sign  of  death  was  on  your  face  dat  time,  what- 
ever way  your  words  went.' 

'From  what  could  you  gather  it?'  said  Hardress,  with  a  depre- 
cating accent. 

'From  what?  From  everyting.  Listen  hether.  Didn't  you 
remind  me  den  of  my  own  offer  on  de  Purple  Mountain  awhile 
before,  an'  tell  me  dat  if  I  was  to  make  dat  offer  again  you'd  tink 
defferent?  An'  didn't  you  giv'  me  de  token  dat  you  refused  me 
den?  Ah,  dis  is  what  makes  me  sick,  after  I  putting  my  neck  into 
de  halter  for  a  man.  Well,  it's  all  one.  An'  now  to  call  me  out  o' 
my  name,  an'  tell  me  I  done  it  all  for  harm!  Dear  knows,  it  wasn't 
for  any  good  I  hoped  for  it,  here  or  hereafter,  or  for  any  pleasure  I 
took  in  it,  dat  it  was  done.  And  talkin'  of  hereafter,  Masther  Har- 
dress, listen  to  me.  Eily  O'Connor  is  in  heaven,  an'  she  has  told 
her  story.  Dere  are  two  books  kept  dere,  dey  tell  us,  of  all  our 
doings,  good  and  bad.  Her  story  is  wrote  in  one  o'  dem  books,  an' 
my  name  (I'm  sore  afeered)  is  wrote  after  it;  an'  take  my  word  for 
dis,  in  whichever  o'  dem  books  my  name  is  wrote,  your  own  is  not 
far  from  it.' 

As  he  spoke  those  words,  with  an  energy  beyond  what  he  had 
ever  shown,  the  fire  fell  in,  and  caused  a  sudden  light  to  fill  the 
place.  It  shone,  ruddy  brown,  upon  the  excited  face  and  uplifted 
arm  of  the  deformed,  and  gave  him  the  appearance  of  a  fiend, 
denouncing  on  the  head  of  the  affrighted  Hardress  the  sentence  of 
eternal  woe.  It  glared  likewise  upon  the  white  drapery  of  the 
latter,  and  gave  to  his  dragged  and  terrified  features  a  look  of 
ghastliness  and  fear  that  might  have  suited  such  an  occasion  well. 
The  dreadful  picture  continued  but  for  a  second,  yet  it  remained 
engraved  upon  the  sense  of  Hardress,  and  like  the  yelling  of  the 
hounds,  haunted  him,  awake,  and  dreaming,  to  his  death.  The 
fire  again  sunk  low,  the  light  grew  dim.  It  came  like  a  dismal 
vision  of  the  ephialtes,  and  like  a  vision,  faded. 

They  were  aroused  from  the  pause  to  which  this  slight  incident 

328 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

gave  occasion  by  hearing  the  sentinel  arrest  his  steps  as  he  passed 
before  the  door,  and  remain  silent  in  his  song,  as  if  in  the  act  of 
listening. 

'All  right  within  there?'  said  the  sentinel,  with  his  head  to  the 
door. 

'All's  right  your  way,  but  not  my  way,'  returned  Danny,  sulkily. 

In  a  few  minutes  they  heard  him  shoulder  his  musket  once  again, 
and  resume  his  walk,  humming  with  an  air  of  indifference  the  same 
old  burthen — 

'  We  won't  go  home  till  morning, 
Until  the  dawn  appears.' 

Hardress  remained  gazing  on  his  servant  for  some  moments,  and 
then  said  in  a  whisper: 

'He  has  not  heard  us,  as  I  feared.  It  is  little  worth,  at  this 
time,  to  consider  on  whom  the  guilt  of  this  unhappy  act  must  fall. 
We  must  at  least  avoid  the  shame,  if  possible.  Could  I  depend 
upon  you  once  again,  if  I  assisted  in  your  liberation,  on  the  under- 
standing that  you  would  at  once  leave  the  country?' 

The  eyes  of  the  prisoner  sparkled  with  a  sudden  light.  'Do  you 
tink  me  a  fool  ? '  he  said.  '  Do  you  tink  a  fox  would  refuse  to  run 
to  earth,  wit  de  dogs  at  his  brush?' 

'Here,  then!'  said  Hardress,  placing  a  purse  in  his  hand,  'I 
have  no  choice  but  to  trust  in  you.  This  window  is  unguarded. 
There  is  a  pathway  to  lead  you  through  the  hay-yard,  and  thence 
across  the  field,  in  the  direction  of  the  road.  Depart  at  once,  and 
without  farther  question.' 

'But  what'll  I  do  about  that  fellow?'  said  Danny.  'Dat  sentry 
comes  by  constant  dat  way  you  hear  him  now,  axing  me  if  all's 
right.' 

'I  will  remain  here  and  answer  for  you,'  said  Hardress,  'until 
you  have  had  time  to  escape.  In  the  meantime,  use  your  utmost 
speed,  and  take  the  road  to  Cork,  where  you  will  be  sure  to  find 
vessels  ready  to  sail.  If  ever  we  should  meet  again  on  Irish  soil, 
it  must  be  for  the  death  of  either,  most  probably  of  both.' 

'An'  is  dis  de  way  we  part  after  all?'  said  Danny.  'Well,  den, 
be  it  so.  Perhaps  after  you  tink  longer  of  it,  masther,  you  may 
tink  better  of  me.' 

So  saying,  he  sprang  on  the  manger,  and  ascended  (notwith- 
standing his  hurt)  with  the  agility  of  a  monkey  to  the  window.  A 

329 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

touch  undid  the  fastening,  and  in  a  few  moments  Hardress  became 
the  sole  occupant  of  the  temporary  dungeon. 

He  remained  for  a  considerable  time  leaning  with  his  shoulder 
against  the  wall,  and  gazing  with  a  vacant  eye  on  the  decaying 
fire.  In  this  situation  the  sentinel  challenged  several  times  in  suc- 
cession, and  seemed  well  content  with  the  answers  which  he  re- 
ceived. But  the  train  of  thought  which  passed  through  the  mind 
of  Hardress  became  at  length  so  absorbing  that  the  challenge  of 
the  soldier  fell  unheard  upon  his  ear.  After  repeating  it  without 
avail  three  or  four  times,  the  man  became  alarmed,  and  applying 
the  butt  of  his  musket  at  the  door,  he  forced  it  in  without  much 
effort.  His  astonishment  may  be  conceived,  when,  instead  of  his 
little  prisoner,  he  beheld  a  tall  figure  wrapt  in  white,  and  a 
ghastly  face  on  which  the  embers  shed  a  dreary  light.  The  fellow 
was  a  brave  soldier,  but  (like  all  people  of  that  class  in  his  time) 
extremely  superstitious.  His  brain,  moreover,  was  heated  with 
whiskey-punch,  and  his  imagination  excited  by  numberless  tales 
of  horror  which  had  been  freely  circulated  in  the  servants'  hall. 
Enough  only  remained  of  his  presence  of  mind  to  enable  him  to 
give  the  alarm  by  firing  his  musket,  after  which  he  fell  senseless 
on  the  pavement.  Hardress,  no  less  alarmed  on  his  own  part, 
started  into  sudden  energy,  and  climbing  to  the  window,  with  an 
agility  even  surpassing  that  of  the  fugitive,  hurried  off  in  the  direc- 
tion of  his  sleeping-chamber. 

There  were  few  in  the  house  who  were  capable  of  adopting  any 
vigorous  measures  on  hearing  the  alarm.  Hastening  to  the  spot, 
they  found  the  sentinel  lying  senseless  across  the  stock  of  his  mus- 
ket, the  stable-door  open,  and  the  prisoner  fled.  The  man  himself 
was  enabled,  after  some  time,  to  furnish  a  confused  and  broken 
narrative  of  what  he  had  seen,  and  his  story  was  in  some  degree 
confirmed  by  one  of  his  comrades,  who  stated  that  at  the  time 
when  the  shot  was  fired  he  beheld  a  tall  white  figure  gliding  rapidly 
amongst  the  hay-stacks  towards  the  end  of  the  little  enclosure, 
where  it  vanished  in  the  shape  of  a  red  heifer. 

The  sentinel  was  placed  under  arrest  in  an  apartment  of  the  castle, 
until  the  pleasure  of  his  officer  could  be  known  respecting  him. 
Captain  Gibson,  however,  in  common  with  the  other  gentlemen,  and 
the  greater  number  of  his  soldiers,  was  at  this  moment  wholly  in- 
capable either  of  conceiving  or  expressing  any  opinion  whatsoever. 

This  story,  as  usual,  was  circulated  throughout  the  country  in 

33° 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

the  course  of  the  following  day,  with  many  imaginative  embellish- 
ments. Amongst  other  inventions,  it  was  said  that  the  ghost  of 
Eily  O'Connor  had  appeared  to  the  sentinel  to  declare  the  prisoner's 
innocence  and  demand  his  liberation.  Many  persons  adduced 
the  well-known  character  of  Eily  as  a  ground  for  lending  credence 
to  this  fiction.  'It  was  like  her,'  they  said;  'she  was  always  a 
tender-hearted  creature.' 

The  evidence  remaining  against  the  other  prisoners  was  now  so 
immaterial,  that  their  dismissal  became  a  necessary  consequence. 
Several  efforts  were  made  to  draw  them  into  some  confession  of  their 
participations  in  the  offense  alleged,  but  if  they  were  cautious  in 
their  admissions  while  the  murderer  was  in  custody,  they  would 
make  no  admission  whatever  after  hearing  of  his  escape.  Equally 
unavailable  were  all  the  exertions  made  for  the  recapture  of  the 
suspected  fugitive,  and  in  a  few  weeks  the  affair  had  begun  to  grow 
unfamiliar  to  the  tongues  and  recollections  of  the  people. 

Notwithstanding  the  assurances  of  Danny,  and  the  danger 
which  he  must  incur  by  remaining  in  the  country,  a  doubt  would 
frequently  cross  the  mind  of  Hardress,  whether  he  had  in  reality 
availed  himself  of  his  recovered  freedom  to  leave  it  altogether.  He 
had  money;  he  had  many  acquaintances;  and  he  was  an  Irishman; 
an  indifferent  one,  it  is  true,  but  yet  possessing  the  love  of  expense, 
of  dissipation,  and  the  recklessness  of  danger  which  mingle  so 
largely  in  the  temperament  of  his  countrymen.  It  was  almost  an 
even  question,  whether  he  would  not  risk  the  chances  of  detection, 
for  the  sake  of  playing  the  host  among  the  circle  of  jolly  companions 
in  the  purlieus  of  his  native  city.  These  considerations,  often 
discussed  between  Hardress  and  his  now  miserable  mother,  made 
them  agree  to  hasten  the  day  of  marriage,  with  the  understanding 
that  (by  an  anticipation  of  the  modern  fashion)  the  'happy  pair' 
were  to  leave  home  immediately  after  the  ceremony.  The  South 
of  France  was  the  scene  fixed  upon  for  the  commencement  of  their 
married  life,  the  month  of  honey. 


331 


THE   COLLEGIANS 
CHAPTER  XLI 


A  CIRCUMSTANCE  which  occurred  during  the  intervening 
period  once  more  put  Hardress  to  a  severe  probation.    It 
was  not  less  severe,  moreover,  that  it  came  like  the  accesses  of  a 
nervous  disorder,  suddenly,  and  from  a  cause  extremely  dispro- 
portioned  to  its  violence. 

He  had  been  conversing  with  his  intended  bride,  on  that  day 
which  was  fixed  upon  as  the  penultimate  of  their  courtship,  with  a 
more  than  usual  appearance  of  enjoyment.  Anne,  who  looked 
out  for  those  breaks  of  sunshine  in  his  temper,  as  anxiously  as  an 
agriculturist  might  for  fair  weather  in  a  broken  autumn,  encouraged 
the  symptom  of  returning  peace,  and  succeeded  so  happily  as  to 
draw  him  out  into  quick  and  lively  repartees,  and  frequent  bursts 
of  laughter.  Unfortunately,  however,  in  her  ecstasy  at  this  display 
of  spirits,  she  suffered  her  joy  to  hurry  her  unwisely  into  the  for- 
bidden circle  which  enclosed  his  secret,  and  their  music  turned  to 
discord.  She  thought  this  holiday  hour  afforded  a  fair  opportunity 
to  penetrate  into  the  Blue  Chamber  of  his  heart,  from  which  he  had 
so  often  warned  her,  and  which  a  better  impulse  than  curiosity 
urged  her  to  explore.  She  did  not  know  that  the  interior  was  defiled 
with  blood. 

'Well,  Hardress,'  she  said,  with  a  smile  that  had  as  much  of 
feeling  as  of  mirth,  'is  not  this  a  happier  score  for  counting  time 
than  sitting  down  to  shut  our  eyes  and  ears  to  the  pleasant  world 
about  us,  and  opening  them  on  a  lonesome  past  or  a  foreboding 
future  ? ' 

If  the  clouds  of  the  past  and  the  future  both  had  met  and  mingled 
in  the  mid-heaven  of  consciousness,  they  could  not  have  cast  a 
darker  or  more  sudden  shade  than  that  which  now  overspread  the 
brow  of  Hardress.  The  laughter  darkened  on  his  cheek,  his  eye 
grew  stern  and  dull,  and  his  whole  being,  from  the  inmost  feeling 
of  his  nature,  to  the  exterior  on  which  those  feelings  were  indicated, 
seemed  to  have  undergone  an  instantaneous  change. 

Anne  perceived  her  error,  but  did  not  cease  to  follow  up  her  claim 
upon  his  confidence. 

'Do  not  let  me  feel,'  she  said,  'that  I  have  brought  back  your 

332 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

gloom.  Dear  Hardress,  hear  me  still  without  uneasiness.  My 
sole  intention  is  that  of  procuring  your  health  and  peace  of  mind; 
and  surely  it  should  not  be  considered  an  intrusion  that  I  desire 
your  confidence.  Do  you  fear  to  find  in  me  anything  more  foreign 
than  a  near  and  interested  friend?  Believe  me,  you  shall  not, 
Hardress.  I  am  driven  upon  this  inquiry  in  spite  of  me.  There 
is  something  hidden  from  me  which  it  would  be  kinder  to  reveal. 
I  see  it  prey  upon  your  own  health  and  spirits,  day  after  day.  I 
see  it  even  fixing  its  cruel  hold  at  length  upon  my  aunt.  You  meet 
with  a  consciousness  in  your  eyes,  and  you  both  glance  from  time 
to  time  at  me,  as  if  I  were  a  stranger  or — I  should  not  say  it,  perhaps 
— a  spy.  If  I  come  upon  you  when  you  speak  together,  there  is  a 
hush  at  my  appearance,  and  sometimes  an  embarrassed  look,  and 
I  have  often  seen  trouble  in  your  eyes  and  tears  in  hers.  Tell  me, 
my  dear  Hardress,  what  is  the  cause  of  this?  You  either  ap- 
prehend, or  you  have  endured,  some  terrible  misfortune.  It  is  not 
now  the  time  to  treat  me  as  a  stranger.' 

She  ceased  to  speak,  and  seemed  to  expect  an  answer,  but  Har- 
dress said  not  a  word.  He  remained  with  his  hands  crossed  on  the 
back  of  the  chair,  his  cheek  resting  upon  these,  and  his  eyes  fixed 
in  gloomy  silence  on  the  floor. 

'Or,  if  you  do  not  think  me  worthy  of  a  confidence,'  Anne  re- 
sumed, with  some  warmth,  'at  least — Nay,  but  I  am  ill-tempered 
now,'  she  added,  suddenly  checking  herself.  'I  should  not  say 
that.  I  would  say,  Hardress,  if  you  really  find  yourself  prevented 
from  admitting  me  into  your  confidence,  at  least  assure  yourself  of 
this.  If  it  is  anything  in  your  present  situation — in — in — I  fear  to 
say  too  much,  in  your  engagements  with  myself  that  interferes  with 
your  peace  of  mind,  I— I  had  rather  suffer  anything— than— than— 
be  the  cause  of  suffering  to  you.' 

She  turned  away  as  she  said  these  words,  to  hide  from  him  the 
burst  of  tears  with  which  they  were  accompanied.  She  pressed 
her  handkerchief  against  her  lips,  and  used  a  violent  though  silent 
effort  to  avoid  the  convulsive  utterance  of  the  grief  that  struggled 
at  her  heart. 

It  often  happens  that  the  most  sensitive  persons  are  those  \ 
are  most  blind  to,  and  make  least  allowance  for,  the  susceptibility 
of  others.     The  long  habit  of  brooding  over  his  own  wants  and 
sufferings  made  Hardress  incapable  for  the  moment  of  appreciat- 
ing the  generous  affection  which  this  speech  evinced.    He  answered 

333 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

gloomily,  that  'there  were  many  things  in  the  minds  of  all  men 
which  they  would  hide,  if  possible,  even  from  themselves,  and 
which,  therefore,  they  could  not  reasonably  be  expected  to  com- 
municate overreadily  to  another,  however  undeniable  the  claim 
to  confidence  might  be.' 

With  this  cold  answer  the  conversation  ceased.  A  little,  yet  but 
a  little,  warmed  to  find  her  generous  proposal  (a  proposal  which 
cost  her  so  much  agony)  thus  unhandsomely  received,  Anne  dried 
her  tears,  and  remained  for  some  minutes  in  that  sorrowing  and 
somewhat  indignant  composure  to  which  in  virtuous  breasts  the 
sense  of  unmerited  injury  gives  birth.  Subduing,  however,  as  she 
had  long  since  learned  to  do,  her  personal  feelings  to  a  sense  of 
duty,  she  forced  herself  to  assume  an  air  of  cheerfulness,  and  once 
more  resumed  the  tone  of  conversation  which  had  preceded  this 
unfortunate  failure.  Again  her  accustomed  spirits  arose  at  her 
desire,  and  again  she  was  successful  in  withdrawing  Hardress  from 
his  mood  of  dismal  meditation. 

One  remarkable  feature  in  the  mental  disease  of  Hardress  (for 
such  it  might  now  be  justly  termed)  was,  as  we  have  before  re- 
marked, the  extreme  uncertainty  and  arbitrariness  of  its  accesses. 
His  existence  seemed  to  be  without  a  basis,  his  mind  without  a 
centre,  or  a  rest.  He  had  no  consciousness  of  duty  to  support 
him,  no  help  from  heaven,  and  no  trust  in  man.  Even  the  very 
passion  that  ate  up  his  soul  was  incapable  of  affording  to  his  mind 
that  firmness  of  purpose  and  false  strength  which  passion  often 
gives;  for  his  was  merely  retrospective,  and  had  no  object  in  the 
future.  He  became  a  passive  slave  to  his  imagination.  Fre- 
quently, while  enjoying  a  degree  of  comparative  tranquillity,  the 
thought  would  suggest  itself  to  his  fancy,  that  'perhaps  this  very 
day,  secure  as  he  believed  himself,  might  see  him  manacled,  and 
in  a  dungeon.'  Instead  of  quietly  turning  his  attention  away  to  an 
indifferent  subject,  or  baffling  the  suggestion  (as  a  guiltless  person 
might)  by  resigning  himself  to  a  directing  Providence,  he  combated 
it  with  argument;  it  increased  and  fastened  on  his  imagination, 
until  at  length  his  nerves  began  to  thrill,  his  limbs  grew  faint,  his 
brow  moist,  and  his  whole  being  disturbed  as  at  the  presence  of  an 
actual  danger.  At  other  times,  when  sitting  alone,  it  would  occur 
to  him  that  his  servant  might,  notwithstanding  his  caution,  have 
abused  his  confidence  and  remained  in  the  country.  The  idea 
of  the  danger,  the  ruin,  which  would  most  probably  attend  such 

334 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

disobedience,  frequently  produced  so  violent  an  effect  upon  his 
mind,  that  he  would  spring  from  his  seat  in  a  transport  of  frenzy, 
sink  on  one  knee,  and  press  both  hands  with  his  utmost  force 
against  the  ground,  as  if  in  the  act  of  strangling  the  delinquent. 
Then,  hearing  the  footstep  of  Anne  or  of  his  mother  approaching 
the  door,  he  would  arise  suddenly,  covered  with  shame,  and  reach 
his  chair  exactly  in  time  to  avoid  detection. 

Soon  after  the  conversation  we  have  above  detailed,  Mr.  Cregan 
entered,  and  some  question  arose  on  the  escape  of  Mr.  Warner's 
prisoner,  and  the  possibility  of  his  recapture.  This  led  naturally 
to  a  disquisition  on  the  nature  of  the  crime  alleged  against  him, 
and  of  capital  punishments  in  general. 

'People  have  hinted,'  said  Mr.  Cregan,  'that  this,  after  all, 
might  have  been  a  case  of  suicide,  and  for  my  part  I  don't  see  the 
impossibility.' 

'I  should  think  it  very  unlikely,'  said  Anne;  'suicide  is  a  very 
un-Irish  crime.  The  people  are  too  religious  for  it,  and  some 
people  say  too  miserable.' 

'Too  miserable!'  exclaimed  Mr.  Cregan;  'now  I  should  think 
that  the  only  cause  in  the  world  for  suicide — the  only  possible 
palliative.' 

'  I  am  not  metaphysical  enough  to  account  for  it,'  returned  Anne 
with  a  smile,  'and  I  only  repeat  a  sentiment  which  I  heard  once 
from  Hardress.  But  their  misery,  at  all  events,  is  a  cause  for  their 
piety,  and  in  that  way  may  be  a  cause  of  their  resignation  also.' 

'Of  all  crimes,'  said  Mr.  Cregan,  'that  is  the  most  absurd  and 
unaccountable,  and  I  wonder  how  jurymen  can  reconcile  it  to  them- 
selves to  bring  in  their  shameless  verdicts  of  insanity  so  constantly 
as  they  do.  When  you  hear  of  a  fellow's  cutting  his  throat,  look 
at  the  inquest,  and  if  you  can't  laugh  at  the  evidence,  you  have 
nothing  in  you.  The  deceased  was  observed  to  be  rather  silent 
and  melancholy  the  day  before;  he  wore  his  hat  on  one  side,  a 
fashion  which  his  nearest  acquaintances  had  never  observed  him 
to  use  till  then;  he  called  his  wife  out  of  her  name,  and  went  into 
the  rain  without  an  umbrella.  I  should  like  to  see  how  far  such 
evidence  would  go  to  prove  a  case  of  lunacy  in  Chancery.' 

'Then  you  would,  I  suppose,  uncle,  have  the  law  put  in  force 
in  all  its  rigour — confiscation  of  property,  and  impaling  the  body 
on  a  cross-road?' 

'Impaling  the  bodies!'  exclaimed  Cregan  in  a  transport  of  zeal; 

335 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'I  would  almost  have  'em  impaled  alive!  Why  do  you  laugh? 
A  bull,  is  it  ?  adad,  and  so  it  is.  Then  it  is  time  for  me  to  cut 
and  run.'  So  saying,  he  made  his  exit  with  the  utmost  speed, 
while  his  niece  leaned  aside,  and  laughed. 

Hardress  heard  all  this  with  what  might  be  supposed  the  sensation 
of  one  who  finds  himself  struck  by  death,  while  witnessing  a  farce. 
But  he  succeeded  in  concealing  his  emotions  from  the  observation 
of  his  young  friend. 

The  time  was  now  arrived  for  their  customary  morning  walk, 
and  Anne  arranged  her  bonnet  and  cloak  before  the  large  pier 
glass,  while  she  continued  from  time  to  time  to  address  herself  to 
Hardress.  He  had  already  taken  his  hat  and  gloves,  and  not 
liking  the  subjects  on  which  she  was  speaking,  paced  up  and  down 
the  room  in  gloomy  and  fretful  impatience. 

'What  a  dreadful  death  hanging  must  be!'  said  Anne,  as  she 
curled  up  a  wandering  tress  upon  her  fingers.  'I  wonder  how  any 
temptation  can  induce  people  to  run  the  risk  of  it.' 

'Come — come,'  said  Hardress,  'the  morning  will  change,  if  you 
delay.' 

'An  instant  only.  If  you  would  but  deliver  yourself  up  for  a 
moment  to  such  a  day-dream,  you  may  imagine  something  of  the 
horror  of  it.  Suppose  yourself  now,  Hardress,  marching  along 
between  two  priests,  with  a  hangman  after  you,  and  the  rope  about 
your  neck,  and  a  great  crowd  of  people  shouldering  each  other  to 
obtain  one  glance  at  you — and — ' 

'There's  a  rain-cloud  in  the  west,'  said  Hardress;  'we  shall  lose 
the  best  part  of  the  day.' 

'I  am  just  ready,'  returned  Anne,  'but  let  me  finish  my  picture. 
Imagine  yourself,  now,  at  the  place  of  execution;  that  you  feel 
your  elbows  tied  behind  and  that  shocking  cap  put  down  upon 
your  eyes.' 

'Yes,  yes,  it  is  very  pretty,'  said  Hardress  peevishly,  'but  I  wish 
you  would  think  of  what  you  are  about.' 

'You  ascend,  and  there  is  a  dreadful  buzz  amongst  the  people, 
your  heart  beats,  your  brain  grows  dizzy,  you  feel  the  hangman's 
iron  fingers  on  your  neck,  the  drop  begins  to  grow  unfirm  beneath 
your  feet.' 

'You  will  drive  me  mad!'  roared  Hardress,  stamping  on  the  floor 
in  a  paroxysm  of  fury.  'This  is  intolerable!  I  bid  you  make  your- 
self ready  to  walk,  and  instead  of  doing  so,  you  talk  of  death  and 

336 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

hangmen,  halters  and  ignominy,  as  if  there  were  not  real  woe 
enough  on  earth,  without  filling  the  air  around  us  with  imaginary 
horrors.  Forgive  me,  Anne,'  he  added,  observing  the  air  of  aston- 
ishment and  sudden  reserve  with  which  she  regarded  him,  as  alarm- 
ing as  it  was  ominous,  'forgive  me  for  thij  ill-tempered  language. 
You  know  my  very  being  hangs  upon  you,  but  I  am  sick  and  sad, 
and  full  of  splenetic  thoughts.' 

'Hardress,'  said  Anne,  after  a  long  pause,  'I  have  borne  a  great 
deal  from  you,  but — ' 

'Nay,  Anne,'  said  Hardress,  taking  her  hand  with  much  anxiety 
and  submissiveness  of  look,  'do  not  say  more  at  present.  If  I 
could  tell  you  what  is  passing  in  my  mind,  you  would  pity,  and  not 
blame  me.  You  are  almost  the  only  thing  in  this  world,  in  my 
present  state  of  ill  health,  in  which  my  heart  is  interested,  and  if 
you  look  cold  upon  me,  my  life  will  indeed  grow  wintry.  This 
will  not,  I  hope,  continue  under  a  sunnier  sky  and  more  indulgent 
air.  You  must  not  be  angry  with  me  for  having  a  set  of  clamorous 
nerves.' 

After  an  interval  of  silent  reflection,  Anne  took  his  arm  without 
reply,  and  they  proceeded  on  their  walk.  She  did  not,  however, 
cease  to  meditate  seriously  and  deeply  on  the  scene  which  had  just 
taken  place. 

The  morning  was  fair,  and  freshened  by  a  gentle  wind.  The 
boats  sped  rapidly  along  the  shores,  the  sea-gull  sailed  with  wings 
outspread  and  motionless  upon  the  breeze.  The  sea-lark  twittered 
at  the  water's  edge,  the  murmur  of  the  waves,  as  they  broke  upon 
the  strand,  sounded  sweet  and  distant,  the  green  leaves  quivered 
and  sparkled  against  the  sunshine,  the  peasants  laughed  and  jested 
at  their  labour  in  the  fields,  and  all  was  cheering,  tender,  and 
pastoral  around  them. 

On  a  sudden,  as  they  approached  an  angle  in  the  road,  the 
attention  of  our  loiterers  was  caught  by  sounds  of  boisterous  mirth 
and  rustic  harmony.  In  a  few  seconds,  on  reaching  the  turn, 
they  beheld  the  persons  from  whom  the  noise  (for  we  dare  not  call 
it  music)  proceeded.  A  number  of  young  peasants,  dressed  out 
in  mumming  masquerade,  with  their  coats  off,  their  waistcoats 
turned  the  wrong  side  outward,  their  hats,  shoulders,  and  knees, 
decorated  with  gay  ribands  (borrowed  for  the  occasion  from  their 
fair  friends),  their  faces  streaked  with  paint  of  various  colours, 
and  their  waists  encircled  with  shawls  and  sashes,  procured  most 

337 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

probably  from  the  same  tender  quarter.  Many  of  them  held  in 
their  tiands  long  poles  with  handkerchiefs  fluttering  at  the  top, 
and  forming  a  double  file  on  either  side  of  half  a  dozen  persons, 
who  composed  the  band,  and  whose  attire  was  no  less  gaudy  than 
that  of  their  companions.  One  held  a  pipolo,  another  a  fiddle, 
another  a  bagpipe,  a  fourth  made  a  dildorn  *  serve  for  tambourine, 
and  a  fifth  was  beating  with  a  pair  of  spindles  on  the  bottom  of  an 
inverted  tin-can,  while  he  imitated  with  much  drollery  the  important 
strut  and  swagger  of  the  military  Kettle-drum.  Behind,  and  on 
each  side,  were  a  number  of  boys  and  girls,  who,  by  their  shrill 
clamour,  made  the  discord  that  prevailed  among  the  musicians 
somewhat  less  intolerable.  Every  face  was  bright  with  health 
and  gaiety,  and  not  a  few  were  handsome. 

They  came  to  a  halt,  and  formed  a  semicircle  across  the  road 
as  Anne  and  Hardress  came  in  sight.  The  musicians  struck  up  a 
jig,  and  one  of  the  young  men,  dragging  out  of  the  crowd  with  both 
hands  a  bashful  and  unwilling  country  girl,  began  to  time  the 
music  with  a  rapid  movement  of  heel  and  toe,  which  had  a  rough 
grace  of  its  own,  and  harmonised  well  with  the  vigorous  and  rough- 
hewn  exterior  of  the  peasant. 

It  is  the  custom  at  dances  of  this  kind  for  the  gentleman  to  find 
a  partner  for  his  fair  antagonist  after  he  has  finished  his  own  jig, 
and  that  partner,  if  he  be  a  person  of  superior  rank,  is  expected  to 
show  his  sense  of  the  honour  done  him  by  dropping  something 
handsome,  as  he  is  going,  into  the  piper's  hat.  Neither  is  it  in  the 
power  of  a  stranger  to  decline  the  happiness  that  is  offered  to  him, 
for  the  people  have  a  superstition,  that  such  a  churlishness  (to  say 
nothing  of  its  utter  want  of  politeness)  is  ominous  of  evil  to  the  lady, 
betokening  the  loss  of  her  lover  at  some  future  day.  Hardress 
was  compelled,  though  much  against  his  will,  to  comply  with  the 
established  usage,  the  bashful  fair  one  insisting  with  a  great  deal 
of  good  humour  on  her  claim,  and  appealing  to  Miss  Chute  for 
her  influence  with  a  supplicating  tone  and  eye. 

While  he  was  dancing,  Anne  passed  the  May-day  mummers 
(for  so  were  the  merry-makers  termed)  and  strolled  on  alone.  On 
a  sudden  the  music  ceased,  and  she  heard  a  clamour  commence 
which  had  the  sound  of  strife.  Turning  hastily  round,  she  beheld 
a  strange  hurry  amongst  the  crowd,  and  Hardress  in  the  midst, 

*  A  vessel  used  in  winnowing  wheat,  made  of  sheepskin  stretched 
over  a  hoop. 

338 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

gripping  one  of  the  mummers  by  the  throat,  and  then  flinging  him 
back  with  extreme  violence  againt  the  dry-stone  wall  on  the  road- 
side. The  man  rose  again,  and  looking  after  Hardress,  tossed  his 
hand  above  his  head,  and  shook  it  in  a  menacing  way. 

Hardress  hurried  away  from  the  group,  many  of  whom  remained 
gazing  after  him  in  astonishment,  while  others  gathered  around 
the  injured  man,  and  seemed  to  inquire  the  cause  of  this  singular 
and  unprovoked  assault.  The  same  inquiry  was  made  by  Anne, 
who  was  astonished  at  the  appearance  of  terror,  rage,  and  agitation 
that  were  mingled  in  the  demeanour  of  Hardress.  He  made  some 
confused  and  unsatisfactory  answer,  talked  of  the  fellow's  insolence 
and  his  own  warm  temper,  and  hurried  toward  the  castle  by  a 
shorter  way  than  that  which  they  had  taken  in  leaving  it. 

The  wedding-feast  was  appointed  for  the  evening  of  the  following 
day,  and  it  was  determined  that  the  ceremony  should  take  place 
early  in  the  morning  after  the  entertainment.  The  articles  had 
been  already  signed  by  Anne,  with  a  pale  cheek  and  a  trembling, 
though  not  reluctant,  hand.  These  circumstances  made  it  im- 
possible for  her  to  think  of  altering  her  intentions,  nor  did  she, 
with  consciousness,  even  admit  the  idea  to  fasten  on  her  mind. 
Still,  however,  her  anxiety  became  every  hour  more  trying  and 
oppressive;  and  when  she  retired  to  rest  upon  this  evening,  she 
could  not  avoid  murmuring  in  the  words  of  the  plebeian  elector  of 
Coriolanus:  'If  'twere  to  give  again— but 'tis  no  matter.' 


CHAPTER  XLII 

HOW  MB.  WARNER  WAS  FORTUNATE  ENOUGH  TO  FIND  A  MAN  THAT 
COULD  AND  WOULD  SPEAK  ENGLISH 

ABOUT  sunset  on  the  evening  of  the  following  day,  while  Castle 
Chute  and  its  vicinity  were  merry  as  wedding  times  could 
make  them,  Mr.  Warner,  the  magistrate,  was  quietly  enjoying  a 
bowl  of  punch  with  a  friend  at  his  own  table.    That  table  was 
spread  at  the  distance  of  about  eight  miles  from  the  castle  and  i 
friend  was  Captain  Gibson.     Another  individual    Mr. 
the  clerk  was  seated  at  a  distant  corner  of  the  table,  imbibing  his 
portion  of  fluid  in  humble  silence,  but  as  he  was  very  seldom  spoken 

339 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

to,  and  never  ventured  to  mingle  in  the  conversation  himself,  he 
scarcely  could  be  considered  as  one  of  the  company. 

'  Come,  Captain,'  said  Mr.  Warner,  filling  his  glass,  and  passing 
the  bowl  to  the  gallant  officer,  'I  will  give  you  the  bride.' 

'I  shall  drink  it  with  all  my  heart,'  returned  the  Captain. — 
'The  bride!'  he  added  raising  the  glass  to  his  lips,  and  honouring 
the  toast  with  a  draught  of  proportional  profundity. 

'And,  talking  of  the  bride,'  continued  Mr.  Warner,  'though  I 
rejoice  at  it  on  my  own  account,  as  it  gives  me  the  pleasure  of  your 
society,  yet  it  puzzles  me  to  know,  Captain,  why  you  are  not  at 
the  wedding  to-night.' 

'For  the  best  of  all  reasons,'  returned  Mr.  Gibson,  'because  I 
wasn't  asked.' 

'You  may  be  certain,  then,  that  there  was  some  mistake  in  that, 
for  the  Chutes  have  always  kept  an  open  house.' 

'I  am  sure  of  it.  Well,  what  do  you  say  if  I  give  you  the  bride- 
groom, in  return  for  your  bride?' 

'I  don't  know.    I  had  rather  drink  the  lady.' 

'  Oh,  so  should  I,  for  that  matter,  but  we  have  drunk  her.' 

'There's  something  mystical  in  that  haughty  young  man  that 
I  cannot  like.  His  conduct  on  many  occasions  lately  has  given 
me  anything  but  a  favourable  indication  of  his  character.  I  have 
even  sometimes  been  tempted  to  think — but  no — no — '  he  added, 
suddenly  interrupting  himself.  'I  have  no  right  to  indulge  in  those 
surmises,  which,  after  all,  may  be  the  suggestion  of  prejudice  and 
rash  judgment.  Come,  sir,  I  will  drink  the  bridegroom;  and  allow 
me  to  add  a  sentiment.  The  bridegroom;  and  may  he  show 
himself  worthy  of  his  fortune!' 

As  he  said  these  words  the  parlour-door  was  opened,  and  a 
servant  appeared,  to  say  that  a  stranger  wished  to  speak  with  Mr. 
Warner  on  judicial  business. 

'Pooh,'  said  the  magistrate,  'some  broken  head,  or  six-penny 
summons.  Let  him  come  to  me  to-morrow  morning.' 

'  He  says  his  business  is  very  pressing,  sir,  an'  'twill  be  more  your 
own  loss  than  his  if  you  let  him  go.' 

'What?  is  that  the  ground  he  goes  on?  Then  I  suppose  we  must 
hear  him.  Captain,  I  know  all  these  examinations  are  amusing 
to  you.  Shall  I  have  him  in  here?' 

'You  could  not  do  me  a  greater  pleasure,'  said  the  officer;  'these 
people  are  only  actors  on  earth,' 

340 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

The  stranger  was  accordingly  shown  up.  His  story  seemed  to 
be  almost  told  by  his  appearance,  for  one  of  his  eyes  was  blackened 
and  puffed  out  so  as  nearly  to  disguise  the  entire  countenance. 
There  was  m  his  tread  and  action  an  appearance  of  gloomy  deter- 
mination, which  had  something  in  it  impressive  and  even  chilling. 
The  magistrate  perceived  at  a  glance  that  the  affair  was  of  a  more 
serious  nature  than  he  had  at  first  suspected. 

'Well,  my  good  man,'  he  said,  in  a  gentle  tone,  'what  is  your 
business  with  me?' 

'I'm  not  a  good  man,'  said  the  stranger,  'as  my  business  with  you 
will  show.  Arn't  you  the  crowner  dat  sot  upon  Eilv  O'Connor?' 

'I  am.' 

'Did  you  find  the  murtherers  yet?' 

'They  are  not  in  custody,  but  we  have  strong  information.' 

'Well,  if  you  have,  maybe  you  don't  want  any  more?'  said  the 
man  contemptuously,  and  seeming  about  to  depart. 

'No,  no;  the  more  we  obtain  the  stronger  our  case  will  be,  of 
course.' 

'Then  listen  to  me,'  said  the  stranger,  'and  I'll  make  it  strong 
enough  for  you.' 

'This  instant,'  returned  Mr.  Warner.  'Mr.  Houlahan,  will  you 
prepare  your  writing  materials,  and  take  down  this  examination 
in  the  regular  form?' 

'Do!'  said  the  stranger.  'Give  me  the  book,  and  swear  me; 
put  every  sentence  in  your  book,  for  every  word  I  have  to  say  is 
goold  to  you,  and  to  de  counsellors.  An'  write  down  first  dat  Eily 
was  surely  murdered,  an'  dat  I,  Danny  Mann,  was  de  one  dat  done 
de  deed.' 

'Mann!'  exclaimed  the  magistrate;  'what,  our  fugitive  pris- 
oner ? ' 

'I  was  your  prisoner  till  I  was  set  at  liberty  by  one  dat  had  a 
raison  for  doing  it.  I'm  now  come  to  deliver  myself  up,  an'  to  tell 
de  whole  truth,  for  I'm  tired  o'  my  life.' 

The  magistrate  paused  for  a  moment,  in  strong  amazement. 

'I  think  it  my  duty,'  said  he,  'to  warn  you  on  one  point.  If  you 
have  been  a  principal  in  the  murder,  your  confession  will  not  entitle 
you  to  mercy  as  an  approver,  while  it  will  be  used  as  evidence  against 
yourself — voluntarily  tendered  as  it  is,  and  without  hope  of  favour 
held  out  to  you.' 

'I  don't  want  mercy/  returned  the  stranger;  'if  I  did,  it  isn't  in 

341 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

courts  I'd  look  for  it.  If  I  valued  my  life,  it  was  in  my  own  hands 
already,  an'  'tisn't  here  you'd  find  me  now.  It  was  not  the  fear 
of  death,  nor  the  hope  of  pardon,  that  brought  me  hether,  but 
because  I  was  decayed  and  disappointed  in  one  that  I  thought 
worse  of  than  my  own  life,  a  hundherd  times.  Do  you  see  that 
mark?'  he  added,  stepping  out  into  the  light,  and  raising  one 
shoulder  so  as  to  bring  the  defect  in  the  spine  more  strikingly  into 
view.  'All  my  days  that  was  my  curse.  Didn't  they  give  me  a 
nickname  for  it,  an'  usen't  some  laugh,  and  more  start  and  shiver, 
when  I'd  come  in  sight  of  'em?  In  place  of  being,  as  I  ought  to  be, 
fighting  at  the  fair,  drinking  at  the  wake,  an'  dancing  at  the  jig- 
house,  there's  the  figure  I  cut  all  my  days!  If  anybody  vexed  me, 
and  I'd  even  sthrike  him,  he  wouldn't  return  the  blow,  for  who'd 
take  notice  o'  the  little  lord?  If  I  sat  down  by  a  girl,  you'd  think 
by  her  looks  dat  she  wasn't  sure  of  her  life  until  she  got  away. 
An'  who  have  I  to  thank  for  dat?  Mr.  Hardress  Cregan.  'Twas 
he  done  dat  to  me,  an'  I  a  little  boy.  But  if  he  did,  he  showed  such 
feeling  after,  he  cried  so  bitterly,  an'  he  cared  so  much  for  me,  dat 
my  heart  warmed  to  him  for  my  very  loss  itself.  I  never  gave  him 
as  much  as  a  cross  word  or  look  for  what  he  done,  nor  never  spoke 
of  it  until  dis  minute.  I  loved  him  from  dat  very  time,  twice  more 
than  ever,  but  what's  de  use  o'  talking?  He's  not  the  same  man 
now.  He  met  me  yesterday  upon  de  road,  an'  what  did  he  do? 
He  struck  me  first,  but  dat  I'd  bear  aisy;  he  called  me  out  o'  my 
name,  an  dat  I  didn't  mind;  but  I'll  tell  you  what  druv  me  wild. 
He  caught  me  by  the  throat,  an'  he  flung  me  back  again'  de  wall, 
just  de  same  way  as  when  he  ga'  me  my  hurt,  and  made  me  a  cripple 
for  life.  From  dat  moment  a  change  come  in  me  towards  him. 
He  doesn't  feel  for  me,  an'  I  won't  feel  for  him.  He  had  his 
revenge,  an'  I'll  have  mine.  Write  down,'  he  added,  wiping  the 
damp  from  his  brow,  and  trembling  with  passion,  'write  down, 
Danny  Mann,  for  de  murderer  of  Eily,  an'  write  down,  Hardress 
Cregan,  for  his  adviser.' 

Both  the  gentlemen  started,  and  gazed  on  one  another. 

'Ye  start!'  cried  the  deformed,  with  a  sneer,  'an'  ye  look  at  one 
another  as  if  ye  tought  it  a  wonder  a  gentleman  should  do  the  like; 
but  there's  the  difference.  A  gentleman  will  have  a  bloody  longing, 
an'  he'll  hide  it  for  fear  of  shame.  Shame  is  de  portion  of  de  poor 
man,  and  he'll  ease  his  longing  when  he  can,  for  he  has  notin'  to 
lose.  A  gentleman  will  buy  the  blood  of  his  inemy  for  goold, 

342 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

but  he'll  keep  his  own  clane  gloves  and  slender  fingers  out  of  it.  A 
poor  man  does  his  own  work,  with  his  own  hands,  an'  is  satisfied 
to  damn  his  own  soul  only.  All  the  difference  I  see  is  this— that 
a  gentleman,  besides  his  being  a  murderer — is  a  decaver,  an'  a 
coward.' 

'If  you  really  mean,'  said  the  magistrate,  'to  impeach  Mr. 
Hardress  Cregan  with  this  crime,  you  do  not  strengthen  your 
testimony  by  evincing  so  much  vindictive  feeling.  His  character 
stands  high,  and  we  know  that  the  highest  have  often  had  their 
steps  beset  by  serpents,  who  have  no  other  motive  for  the  sting  they 
give  than  private  malice  or  revenge  such  as  you  avow.' 

The  wily  taunt  succeeded.  The  stranger  turned  on  the  magis- 
trate a  scowl  of  indescribable  contempt. 

'If  I  could  not  afford  to  avow  it,'  he  said,  'I  had  wit  enough  to 
hide  it.  I  knew  your  laws,  of  old.  It  isn't  for  noting  that  we  see 
the  fathers  of  families,  the  pride  and  the  strength  of  our  villages,  the 
young  an'  the  ould,  the  guilty  and  the  innocent,  snatched  away  from 
their  own  cabins,  and  shared  off  for  transportation  an'  the  gallows. 
It  isn't  for  noting  our  brothers,  our  cousins,  an'  our  friends  are  hanged 
before  our  doores  from  year  to  year.  They  teach  us  something 
of  the  law,  we  thank  'em.  If  I  was  trusting  to  my  own  confession 
I  knew  enough  to  say  little  of  what  brought  me  here.  A  counsellor 
would  tell  you,  mister  magistrate,  that  I'll  be  believed  the  sooner 
in  a  coort,  for  daling  as  I  done.  But  I  have  other  witnesses.  Eily 
O'Connor  was  Hardress  Cregan's  wife.  You  start  at  that,  too. 
There's  the  certificate  of  her  marriage.  I  took  it  out  of  her  bosom, 
after  I—' 

He  suddenly  paused,  placed  both  hands  upon  his  eyes,  and 
shuddered  with  so  much  violence,  that  the  floor  trembled  beneath 
him.  The  listeners  maintained  their  attitude  of  deep  and  motion- 
less attention. 

'Yes,'  he  at  length  continued,  letting  his  hands  descend,  and 
showing  a  horrid  smile  upon  his  lip,  'the  poor  crature  kep'  her  hand 
in  her  bosom,  and  upon  dat  paper,  to  the  last  gasp,  as  if  she  thought 
it  was  to  rob  her  of  that  I  wanted.  Little  she  mattered  her  life 
in  the  comparison.  De  priest  dat  married  'em  died  the  moment 
after,  a  black  sign  for  Eily,  an'  a  blacker  sign,  perhaps,  for  de 
wedding  dey're  going  to  have  to-morrow  morning.  Dat's  a  good 
witness.  Write  down  dat  in  your  book;  an'  den  write  down, 
Phil  Naughten  an'  his  wife  for  having  Eily  in  their  house,  an  - 

343 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

but  lety  'em  tell  their  own  story.  When  you  have  dem  wrote,  put 
down  Lowry  Looby  after,  an'  den  Myles  Murphy,  an'  after,  Mihil 
O'Connor,  de  father;  and  last  of  all,  if  you  want  a  real  witness,  I'll 
tell  you  how  you'll  make  it  certain.  Be  de  first  yourself  to  lay  a 
hand  on  Hardress,  tell  him  you  heerd  of  his  doings,  an'  look  into  his 
face  while  you  are  speaking,  an'  if  dat  doesn't  tell  de  whole  story, 
come  back  an'  call  me  liar.' 

'It  is  clear!'  said  Mr.  Warner,  rising  from  his  seat.  'Captain, 
I  need  make  no  excuse  to  you  for  stirring.  Mr.  Houlahan,  remain 
and  see  this  man  confined.  What,  Horan!  Bring  the  horses  to 
the  door  this  instant.  Captain,  you  will,  perhaps,  accompany  me, 
as  the  service  may  possibly  be  dangerous  or  difficult  on  such  an 
occasion.  We  will  first  ride  for  a  guard  to  your  quarters  (though 
that  will  cost  some  time),  and  then  proceed  to  arrest  this  gentle 
bridegroom.  Horan,  quick  with  the  horses.  I  thought  there  was 
something  hi  him  not  so  orthodox.  I  am  sorry  for  it;  'tis  a  shock- 
ing business,  a  mournful  transaction.' 

'And  will  require,  I  think,'  said  the  Captain, ' that  we  should 
proceed  with  great  delicacy.  So  amiable  a  family,  and  such  a 
shock — ' 

'With  great  delicacy,  certainly,'  returned  the  magistrate,  'but 
likewise  with  a  firmness  becoming  our  trust.  Mr.  Houlahan,  look 
closely  to  the  prisoner.  He  left  our  vigilance  at  fault  on  another 
occasion.  Come,  Captain,  here  are  the  horses.' 

They  rode  rapidly  away,  and  Mr.  Houlahan,  slipping  out  of 
the  room,  locked  the  door  on  the  outside  and  went  to  prepare  some 
suitable  dungeon  for  the  prisoner  upon  the  premises. 

The  unfortunate  man  remained  for  several  minutes  standing 
on  the  floor,  his  hands  clasped  and  elevated  before  him,  his  ear 
inclined,  as  if  in  the  act  of  listening,  his  jaw  dropped,  and  his  eye 
set  in  stolid,  dreamy  wonder.  The  window  opened  on  a  craggy 
field,  and  was  fortified  by  several  bars  of  iron.  He  did  not,  however, 
even  cast  a  glance  at  this  formidable  impediment.  Every  faculty 
of  his  spirit  seemed  for  the  moment  to  be  either  absorbed  by  one 
engrossing  image,  or  to  be  suspended  altogether  by  a  kind  of  mental 
syncope. 

While  he  remained  thus  motionless,  and  while  the  house  was 
quiet  and  still  around  him,  he  suddenly  heard  a  rough  but  not 
unmelodious  voice  singing  the  following  verses  outside  the 
window: 

344 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'But  for  that  false  and  wicked  knave. 

Who  swore  my  life  away, 
I  leave  him  to  the  Judge  of  Heaven, 
And  to  the  judgment  day. 

For  gold  he  made  away  my  life, 
(What  more  could  Herod  do?) 

Nor  to  his  country,  nor  his  God, 
Nor  to  his  friend,  proved  true.! 

The  verses  seemed  to  be  sung  by  one  in  the  act  of  passing  the 
window,  and,  with  the  last  line,  the  singer  had  proceeded  beyond 
hearing.  The  verses,  though  containing  a  common  ballad  senti- 
ment, characteristic  of  the  peculiar  notions  of  honour  and  faith 
held  among  the  secret  societies  of  the  peasantry,  seemed  as  if 
directed  immediately  against  the  informer  himself.  At  least  his 
conscience  so  received  it. 

He  might  become  one  day  the  subject  of  such  a  ballad.  He, 
too,  had  his  sense  of  shame  and  of  honour  (as  all  men  have)  regu- 
lated by  the  feelings  of  the  class  in  which  he  moved.  It  would  tell 
nothing  against  him  there  that  he  had  died  by  the  hangman's 
hands.  Every  petty  village  had  its  Tell  and  its  Riego,  and  they 
had  made  that  death  no  more  disgraceful  in  the  peasant's  eye. 
Their  names  were  cherished  amongst  the  noblest  recollections  of 
his  heart,  they  were  sung  to  his  ancient  melodies,  and  made  familiar 
sounds  in  the  ears  of  his  children.  But  to  be  branded  as  an  in- 
former!— that  character  which,  combining,  as  it  does,  the  vices  of 
bad  faith,  venality,  and  meanness,  is  despised  and  detested  by  the 
Irish  peasantry  beyond  all  social  sins! — that  was  a  prospect  which 
he  could  not  bear  so  well.  And  then  he  turned  to  Hardress,  and 
thought  of  his  feelings,  of  his  old  kindness  and  affection.  He  made 
excuses  for  his  sudden  passion,  and  he  thought  how  those  kindnesses 
would  be  dwelt  upon  in  the  ballad  which  was  to  immortalize  the 
guilt  and  penitence  of  Hardress  and  his  own  treachery. 

He  started  from  his  reverie,  and  gazed  around  him  like  a  forest 
lion  in  a  trap.  He  rushed  to  the  door,  and  gnashed  his  teeth  to 
find  it  locked.  He  drew  back  to  the  other  side  of  the  room,  and 
dashed  himself  against  it  with  all  his  force.  But  it  was  a  magis- 
trate's door,  and  it  resisted  his  efforts.  He  turned  to  the  window, 
dashed  out  the  frame,  and  shivered  the  glass  with  his  foot,  and 
seizing  the  iron  railing  with  both  hands,  swung  himself  from  it, 
and  exerted  his  utmost  strength  in  endeavouring  to  wrench  it  from 

345 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

its  fastening  in  the  solid  masonry.  But  he  might  as  well  have  set 
his  shoulder  to  displace  the  centre  of  gravity  itself.  Baffled,  ex- 
hausted, and  weeping  with  vexation  and  remorse,  he  hung  back  out 
of  the  railing,  his  face  covered  with  a  thick  damp,  and  his  limbs 
torn  and  bleeding  from  the  fragments  of  the  broken  glass. 

We  shall  leave  him  to  suffer  under  all  the  agonies  of  suspense, 
augmented  by  the  double  remorse  under  which  he  now  began  to 
labour,  and  turn  our  eyes  in  the  direction  of  the  castle. 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

HOW  THE  BRIDE  WAS  STARTLED  BY  AN  UNEXPECTED   GUEST 

INVITATIONS,  numberless  as  the  Sibyl's  leaves,  had  been 
dispersed  throughout  the  country  on  the  occasion  of  the 
wedding  at  Castle  Chute.  Amongst  the  rest,  the  Dalys  were  not 
forgotten,  although  certain  circumstances  in  the  history  of  both 
families,  with  which  the  reader  is  already  acquainted,  made  it 
appear  probable  that  they  would  be  merely  received  as  things  of 
form.  It  was,  therefore,  with  feelings  of  strong  surprise  and  of 
secret  confusion  (though  arising  from  very  different  causes)  the 
bridal  pair  understood  that  Kyrle  Daly  intended  to  be  amongst 
the  guests. 

The  popularity  of  the  bride  amongst  the  tenantry  of  the  estate 
was  manifested  by  the  usual  demonstrations  of  festive  enjoyment. 
Bonfires  were  lighted  on  the  road  before  the  avenue  gate,  and  before 
every  public  house  in  the  neighbourhood.  The  little  village  was 
illuminated,  and  bands  of  rural  music,  followed  by  crowds  of  merry 
idlers,  strolled  up  and  down,  playing  various  lively  airs,  and  often 
halting  to  partake  of  the  refreshments  which  were  free  to  aU  who 
chose  to  draw  upon  the  hospitality  of  the  family. 

Before  sunset  the  house  was  crowded  with  blue  coats  and  snow- 
white  silks.  Several  of  the  guests  strayed  in  groups  upon  the 
demesne,  and  several  young  gentlemen,  fashionably  dressed,  might 
be  seen  hovering  around  the  ladies,  and  endeavouring  to  make 
havoc  of  all,  by  enchanting  those  who  were  near  them  by  their 
conversation,  and  those  at  a  distance  by  the  elegance  and  grace  of 
their  gesticulation. 

346 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

Mrs.  Cregan  was  in  the  drawing-room,  among  the  elder  guests, 
pale,  worn,  and  hollow-eyed,  but  still  preserving  the  same  lofty, 
courteous,  and  cordial  demeanour  to  her  friends  by  which  her 
manner  had  been  always  marked. 

The  bridegroom,  habited  in  a  splendid  suit,  that  seemed  to  sit 
upon  his  frame  as  the  shirt  of  Deianira  upon  the  shoulders  of 
Hercules,  glided  like  a  spectre  through  the  laughing  crowd,  the 
most  envied  and  the  most  miserable  of  all  the  throng. 

A  few  of  the  most  intimate  female  connections  of  the  bride  were 
admitted  into  the  garden,  while  Anne  herself,  leaning  on  the  arm 
of  a  bridesmaid,  was  watching  the  last  sun  that  was  to  shine  upon 
her  freedom.  Her  dress  was  a  simple  robe  of  white,  and  her  hair, 
for  the  last  time  dressed  in  the  maiden  fashion  of  the  day,  hung 
loose  upon  her  neck.  As  she  glided  to  and  fro  amongst  the  walks, 
her  fair  companion  endeavoured  by  every  species  of  raillery  to  draw 
her  out  of  the  low-spirited  and  anxious  mood  which  had  been 
hourly  increasing  upon  her  since  the  morning.  But  as  in  a  disease 
of  the  frame,  an  injurious  determination  to  the  part  afflicted  is  said 
to  be  occasioned  by  merely  directing  the  attention  towards  it,  so  in 
our  moments  of  nervous  depression,  the  jest  that  makes  us  feel  it 
is  observed  serves  only  to  augment  its  heaviness. 

At  a  turn  in  the  walk,  hedged  round  by  a  pear-tree,  neatly 
trained,  the  lovely  friends  were  suddenly  met,  and  one  of  them 
startled,  by  the  appearance  of  a  young  man,  attired  in  the  wedding 
costume,  and  handsome;  but  with  a  pale  serenity  upon  his  features 
that  might  have  qualified  him  to  sit  as  a  study  for  Camillus.  The 
lady  who  started  at  his  appearance  was  the  bride;  for  in  this 
interesting  person  she  recognised  her  old  admirer,  Mr.  Kyrle 
Daly. 

It  was  the  first  time  they  had  seen  each  other  since  the  day  on 
which  their  conversation  had  been  attended  with  so  much  pain  to 
both.  It  would  have  little  served  to  confirm  the  newly-acquired 
tranquillity  of  Kyrle  Daly,  if  he  had  known  how  often,  and  with 
feelings  how  unconsciously  altered,  his  conduct  had  been  compared 
by  Anne  with  that  of  Hardress  during  the  last  few  months.  True, 
this  was  a  subject  of  meditation  on  which  she  never  wilfully  suffered 
her  mind  to  repose  for  an  instant.  It  was  a  forbidden  land,  on 
which  her  wandering  thoughts  alone  would  steal  at  intervals;  but 
these  unlicensed  musings  had  tended  to  qualify  her  old  opinions 
in  a  degree  more  striking  than  she  herself  believed.  us, 

347 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

Kyrle  Daly,  of  course,  knew  or  imagined  nothing,  and  therefore 
was  he  here.  He  came  secure  in  the  consciousness  of  a  right 
intention,  and  believing  that  his  own  appearance  of  quiet  and 
cheerfulness  of  mind  would  afford  a  real  satisfaction  to  his  fair, 
and  only  poetically  cruel,  friend. 

He  advanced  towards  the  ladies  with  an  easy  cordiality,  and 
that  total  absence  of  consciousness  in  his  own  demeanour  which 
was  most  certain  to  restore  quietness  to  Anne;  for  self-possession 
is  often  as  contagious  as  embarrassment.  He  addressed  her  in 
the  tone  of  an  interested  friend,  inquired  for  her  health,  spoke  of 
her  mother,  even  of  Hardress,  whom  he  said  he  had  not  yet  been 
fortunate  enough  to  meet;  then  of  the  weather,  of  the  scene  around 
them,  of  the  company,  of  every  subject  that  was  at  the  same  time 
amusing  and  indifferent.  The  same  attentions,  and  with  a  tone  so 
studiously  similar  that  the  ear  of  Petrarch  only  might  have  found 
a  difference,  he  addressed  to  Miss  Prendergast,  the  bridesmaid, 
who  also  was  an  old  acquaintance.  Finally,  he  gently  contrived 
to  separate  the  ladies,  and  giving  an  arm  to  each,  they  continued 
to  tread  the  garden  walks,  while  he  divided  between  them  the  same 
cheerful  conversation  on  indifferent  subjects.  His  spirits,  flowing 
freely,  and  supported  by  those  of  the  lively  bridesmaid,  became 
too  much  for  Anne's  depression,  and  she  became  cheerful  almost 
without  perceiving  it. 

After  some  time  Miss  Prendergast,  beckoned  by  a  fair  friend  in 
a  neighbouring  walk,  deserted  her  companions  for  some  moments. 
Both  stopped  upon  the  walk  to  await  her  return,  and  Kyrle,  per- 
ceiving the  embarrassment  of  the  bride  beginning  to  return,  took 
this  opportunity  of  entering  on  something  like  an  explanatory 
conversation. 

'You  see,  Miss  Chute,'  he  said  with  a  smile,  'you  were  a  better 
prophetess  than  I  believed  you.  If  you  were  one  that  could  be 
vain  of  your  influence,  I  should  not  do  wisely,  perhaps,  in  making 
such  an  admission,  but  you  are  not.  I  have  not,  as  you  perceive, 
found  it  so  difficult  a  task  to  master  my  old  remembrances.' 

The  eye  of  Anne  fell  unconsciously  upon  the  worn  cheek  and 
fingers  of  the  speaker.  He  saw  the  secret  suspicion  which  the 
glance  implied,  and  he  reddened  slightly,  but  he  saw  likewise  that 
it  was  involuntary,  and  he  did  not  seem  to  have  observed  it. 

'There  are  some  feelings,'  he  continued,  'though  looked  upon 
as  harmless,  and  even  amiable  in  themselves,  which  ought  to  be 

348 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

avoided,  and  repelled  with  as  much  vigilance  as  vice  itself.  I  once 
thought  it  a  harmless  thing  to  turn  my  eyes  on  past  times,  and 
deliver  myself  up,  on  a  calm  evening,  to  the  memory  of  my  younger 
hours,  of  sunny  days  departed,  of  faces  fled  or  changed,  of  hearts 
made  cold  by  death  or  by  the  world,  that  once  beat  fervently  beside 
our  own;  to  lean  against  some  aged  tree  in  the  twilight,  and  close 
my  eyes  and  ears  to  the  lonely  murmur  of  the  woods  around  me, 
and  fancy  I  heard  the  whoop  of  my  boyish  friends,  or  the  laugh  of 
my  first  love  along  the  meadows.  But  I  have  learned  to  think 
more  vigorously.  I  was  young  then,  and  fond,  but  age  has  taught 
me  wisdom,  at  least  in  this  respect.  I  shun  these  feelings  now,  as 
I  would  crime.  They  are  the  fancies  that  make  our  natures  effemi- 
nate and  weak,  that  unfit  us  for  our  duty  to  heaven,  and  to  our 
fellow-creatures,  and  render  us  in  soul  what  the  sensualist  is  in 
frame.  I  have  meditated  long  enough  to  know  that  even  my 
feelings  towards  yourself,  at  one  time  (exalted  as  they  were  by  the 
excellence  of  the  object),  were  still  unworthy,  and  deserved  to  be 
disappointed.  I  think,  and  I  fear  not  to  let  you  know,  that  if  I 
were  again  to  become  a  suitor,  my  sentiments  should  be  governed 
by  a  higher  feeling  of  duty,  and  I  could  bear  the  trial  of  a  sudden 
repression  with  greater  firmness  and  a  more  submissive  spirit.' 

'You  will  give  me  credit,  then,'  said  Anne,  with  much  relief,  and 
real  pleasure,  'for  some  knowledge  of  your  character.' 

<No-— no!  it  was  not  in  me  then,'  said  Kyrle,  with  a  smile,  'or 
the  occasion  would  have  brought  it  into  action.  Hardress  could 
tell  you  what  a  mournful  evening — but  wherefore  should  he  trouble 
you?'  he  added,  suddenly  interrupting  himself.  'And,  apropos  of 
Hardress— his  health  appears  to  suffer,  does  it  not?' 

'Daily  and  hourly.' 

'  And  without  a  cause  ? ' 

'The  physicians,'  said  Anne,  'can  find  none.' 

'Aye,'  returned  Kyrle,  'it  is  a  distemper  that  is  not  to  be  found  in 
their  nosology.  It  is  the  burning  of  an  honourable  mind  beneath 
an  undeserved  and  self-inflicted  imputation.  He  knew  my— my- 
regard  for  his  fair  cousin.  I  forced  a  confidence  upon  him,  and  he 
feels  this  transaction  a  great  deal  more  acutely  than  he  ought.' 

Anne  started  at  this  disclosure,  as  if  it  shed  a  sudden  light  upo. 
her  mind.     Her  eyes  sparkled,  her  face  glowed,  and  her  whole 
frame  seemed  agitated  by  a  solution  of  her  doubts,  which  appeared 
so  natural,  and  which  at  once  elevated  the  character  of  Har( 

349 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

that  noble  standard  at  which  she  always  loved  to  contemplate  and 
admire  it. 

'It  must  be  so!'  she  said,  with  great  animation,  'and  I  have  done 
him  wrong.  It  is  like  his  fine  and  delicate  nature.  He  is  still, 
then,  what  I  have  always  thought  him,  fine-minded,  sensitive,  and 
generous  as — '  she  suddenly  turned,  and  extending  her  hand  to 
Kyrle,  said  in  an  altered  tone — 'as  yourself,  my  excellent  friend!' 

Kyrle  took  the  hand  which  was  tendered  to  him,  with  as  little 
appearance  of  emotion  as  he  could  command,  and  resigned  it  again 
almost  upon  the  instant. 

At  this  moment  Hardress  appeared  upon  the  walk.  His  step 
was  troubled  and  rapid,  his  eye  suspicious  and  wandering,  his  hair 
neglected,  and  his  whole  appearance  that  of  a  person  at  fearful 
odds  with  his  own  thought.  He  stopped  short  as  he  approached 
them,  and  glanced  from  one  to  another  with  a  look  of  wildness  and 
irresolution. 

'I  have  been  looking  for  you,  Anne,'  he  said  in  a  weak  voice. 
'Mrs.  Chute  has  been  wishing  to  speak  with  you  about  your 
preparations.' 

'  Do  you  leave  Ireland,  then,  so  soon  ? '  asked  Kyrle  with  some 
interest. 

'To-morrow  morning  we  leave  home,'  replied  Anne,  trembling, 
and  slightly  confused. 

'Then,'  said  Kyrle,  resuming  the  hand  which  he  had  so  hastily 
resigned,  'permit  me  to  offer  my  good  wishes.  Be  assured,  Anne,' 
he  added,  accompanying  her  to  a  little  distance  along  the  walk, 
and  using  a  tone  which  Hardress  could  not  overhear,  'be  assured 
that  I  am  perfectly,  perfectly  contented  with  your  happiness.  Let 
me  entreat  you  to  forget  altogether,  as  I  myself  will  learn  to  do 
henceforward,  that  I  have  ever  proposed  to  myself  any  higher  or 
happier  destiny.  That  scheme  has  fallen  asunder,  and  left  no 
deeper  an  impression  on  my  reason  than  a  love-dream  might  upon 
my  heart.  I  desire  only  to  be  remembered  as  one  who  imagined 
himself  the  warmest  of  your  admirers,  but  who  found  out,  on  a 
little  examination,  that  he  was  only  your  friend.' 

Anne  remained  silent  for  a  moment,  deeply  penetrated  by  the 
anxiety  for  her  peace  of  mind  which  Kyrle  evinced  in  all  his 
conduct  and  his  conversation. 

'Mr.  Daly,'  she  replied  at  length  and  with  some  agitation,  'it 
is  impossible  for  me  now  to  say  all  that  I  feel  with  respect  to  your 

350 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

consideration  of  me  on  every  occasion.    I  am  proud  of  the  friend- 
shin  *W  ™,  «flF«.  ne>  and  jf  we  meet 


hi    nKf  '  °n  his  stePs>  res^ed 

his  place  before  the  bndegroom.  The  picture  which  was  formed 
by  the  two  figures  might  have  challenged  the  united  efforts  of  a 
Raffaelle  and  an  Angelo  to  do  it  justice.  Kyrle  Daly,  standing 
erect,  with  arms  folded,  his  face  pale,  and  bright  with  the  serenity 
of  triumphant  virtue;  his  mouth  touched  by  a  smile  of  forgiveness 
and  of  sympathy,  and  his  eye  clear,  open,  and  seraphic  in  its 
character,  presented  a  subject  that  might  have  pleased  the  eye  of 
the  pupil  of  Perugino.  Hardress,  on  the  other  side,  with  one  hand 
thrust  into  his  bosom,  his  shoulders  gathered  and  raised,  his  brow 
knitted,  rather  in  shame  and  pain  than  in  sternness  or  anger, 
his  eyes  not  daring  to  look  higher  than  the  breast  of  Kyrle,  and  his 
face  of  the  colour  of  burnt  sienna,  would  have  furnished  a  hint  for 
the  sterner  genius  of  Buonarrotti. 

'Hardress,'  said  Kyrle,  with  an  air  of  sudden  frankness,  'confess 
the  truth,  that  you  did  not  expect  me  here  to-day.' 
Hardress  looked  up  surprised,  but  made  no  answer. 
'I  am  come,'  continued  Kyrle,  'to  do  justice  to  you  and  to  myself. 
That  I  have  something  to  complain  of,  you  will  not  deny — that  I 
have  not  so  much  as  I  imagined,  I  am  compelled  to  admit.    My 
resentment,  Hardress,  has  been  excessive  and  unjustifiable,  and 
with  that  admission  I  toss  it  to  the  winds  forever.' 

The  surprise  of  Hardress  seemed  now  so  great  as  to  master  even 
his  remorse  and  his  anxiety.  He  looked  with  increasing  wonder 
into  the  eyes  of  Daly. 

'Knowing  as  I  did,'  continued  the  latter,  'what  passion  was,  I 
should  have  made  more  charitable  allowances  for  its  influence  on 
another;  but  all  charity  forsook  me  at  that  moment,  and  I  thought 
it  reasonable  that  my  friend  should  be  a  cold  philosopher  where  I 
was  a  wild  enthusiast.  I  have  not  even  to  reproach  you  with  your 
want  of  confidence,  for  it  now  appears,  from  my  unreasonable 
expectations,  that  I  could  not  have  deserved  it.  We  are  both, 
perhaps,  to  blame.  Let  that  be  a  point  agreed,  and  let  all  our 
explanations  resolve  themselves  into  these  two  words — forgive, 
forget.' 

Saying  this,  he  gave  his  hand  to  Hardress,  who  received  it  with 
a  stare  of  absent  wonder  and  confusion.  Some  indistinct  and 

351 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

unintelligible  murmurs  arose  to  his  lips,  and  died  in  the  act  of 
utterance. 

'I  know  not,'  continued  Kyrle,  'and  I  shudder  to  think  how  far 
I  might  have  suffered  this  odious  sentiment  to  grow  upon  me,  if  it 
were  not  for  an  occasion  of  melancholy  importance  to  us  all,  which 
arrested  the  feeling  in  its  very  bound.  I  have  even  sometimes 
thought  that  my  unaccomplished  sin  might  possibly  have  been  the 
cause  of  that — '  Here  he  shuddered,  and  stopped  speaking  for 
some  moments. 

Before  he  could  resume,  the  sound  of  the  dinner-bell  broke 
short  the  conference.  Kyrle,  glad  of  the  relief,  hastened  to  the 
house,  while  Hardress  remained  as  if  rooted  to  the  spot,  and  gazing 
after  him  in  silence.  When  he  had  disappeared,  the  bridegroom 
raised  his  eyes  to  the  heavens,  where  already  a  few  stars  twinkled 
in  the  dying  twilight,  and  said  within  his  own  mind: 

'In  that  world  which  lies  beyond  those  points  of  light,  is  it 
possible  that  this  man  and  I  should  ever  fill  a  place  in  the  same 
region?' 


CHAPTER  XLTV 

HOW  MORE  GUESTS  APPEARED  AT  THE  WEDDING  THAN  HAD  BEEN 

INVITED 

LIGHT  laughter,  mirth,  and  music — plenteous  fare,  and 
pleasant  hearts  to  share  it — were  mingled  in  the  dining- 
room  on  this  occasion.  Mrs.  Chute  presided;  the  'old  familiar 
faces'  of  Mr.  Cregan,  Mr.  Creagh,  Mr.  Connolly,  Doctor  Leake, 
and  many  others,  were  scattered  among  the  guests,  and  every  eye 
seemed  lighted  up,  to  contribute  its  portion  of  gaiety  to  the  domestic 
jubilee.  A  cloud  of  vapour,  thin  and  transparent  as  a  Peri's  sighs, 
arose  from  the  dishes  which  adorned  the  table,  and  was  dissipated 
in  the  air  above.  The  heavy  moreen  window-curtains  were  let 
down,  the  servants  flew  from  place  to  place  like  magic,  the  candles 
shed  a  warm  and  comfortable  lustre  upon  the  board,  and  the  clatter 
of  plates,  the  jingling  of  glasses  and  decanters,  the  discomfiture  of 
provision,  and  the  subdued  vigour  with  which  all  this  was  accom- 
plished, considering  the  respectability  of  the  guests,  was  really 

352 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

astonishing.  Without  any  appearance  of  the  havoc  and  carnage 
which  is  displayed  on  such  occasions  in  humbler  life,  it  is  a  question 
whether  there  were  not  actually  more  execution  done,  in  a  quiet, 
determined  way.  It  furnished  a  new  instance  of  the  superior 
advantages  of  discipline. 

Towards  the  close  of  the  feast,  the  manliness  of  Kyrle  Daly  was 
put  to  a  cruel  test,  by  one  of  those  unfeeling  jests  which  are  the 
sport  of  fools  in  every  country.  The  reader  may  smile  at  the  cir- 
cumstance as  trifling,  but  it  was  not  so  in  its  effect  upon  the  heart 
of  the  forlorn  lover.  A  young  lady,  who  was  considered  a  wit 
among  her  country  friends,  and  feared  accordingly,  put  a  willow 
leaf  upon  a  piece  of  cheese,  and  handed  it  to  Kyrle  Daly  with  an 
unconscious  face.  Some  months  before,  a  jest  of  this  kind  would 
have  put  his  temper  to  its  severest  trial,  and  even  now  he  felt  as 
if  he  had  been  stung  by  a  serpent.  He  did  not,  however,  betray 
the  least  emotion,  but  took  his  revenge  by  going  near  the  lady  as 
soon  as  circumstances  permitted,  and  making  mock  love  to  her 
during  the  night. 

The  spirit  of  the  scene  produced  its  effect  upon  the  mind  of 
Hardress  himself,  who,  yielding  to  its  influence,  adopted  a  degree 
of  gaiety  that  surprised  and  delighted  all  who  were  interested  in 
his  fortunes.  It  is  true  that,  from  time  to  time,  a  fear  struck  at 
his  heart  like  the  shock  of  an  alarum,  and  the  glassy  eyes  of  a 
corpse  seemed  at  intervals  to  stare  at  him  from  among  the  crowd. 
But  he  turned  his  eyes  and  his  thoughts  away  to  happier  objects, 
and,  as  if  in  defiance  of  the  ghastly  interruption,  became  more 
gay  and  mirthful  than  before. 

Mrs.  Cregan  did  not  smile  to  see  her  son  so  far  forget  his  misery. 
A  feeling  of  nervous  apprehension  had  lain  upon  her  spirits  through- 
out the  day,  and  became  more  oppressive  and  insupportable 
according  as  the  time  approached  of  Hardress's  departure.  The 
more  certain  his  escape  became,  the  more  did  her  anxiety  increase, 
lest  it  should,  by  some  unlucky  circumstance,  be  yet  prevented. 

While  Hardress,  in  the  full  fling  and  zest  of  his  false  spirits,  was 
in  the  act  of  taking  wine  with  a  fair  friend,  he  felt  a  rustling,  as  of 
some  person  passing  by  his  chair,  and  a  low  voice  whispered  do 
to  his  ear,  'Arise,  and  fly  for  your  life.' 

The  wine-glass  fell  untasted  from  his  hand,  and  he  reman 
a  pale  and  motionless  image  of  terror.  There  was  some  laugh, 
among  the  company,  who  perceived  the  accident;  and  man; 

353 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

ingenious  omens  were  deduced,  not  very  favourable  to  the  prospects 
of  the  lady.  But  the  agitation  of  the  bridegroom  was  attributed 
to  mere  embarrassment. 

The  cloth,  soon  after,  was  removed;  some  songs  were  sung, 
and  the  ladies  rose  to  depart.  Hardress,  with  the  mysterious 
warning  still  ringing  in  his  ear,  was  about  to  follow  in  their  train, 
when  a  rough  grasp  was  laid  upon  his  arm,  the  door  was  shut  with 
violence,  and  he  beheld  Hepton  Connolly  standing  with  his  finger 
raised  in  an  attitude  of  menace  and  reproach.  Hardress  felt  his 
heart  sink  at  the  thought  that  this  interruption  might  cost  him  his 
life. 

'Let  me  go,  my  dear  Connolly,'  he  said,  in  an  anxious  voice. 
*  It  is  of  the  last  importance  to  me.' 

'The  last  importance!'  repeated  Connolly,  with  a  suspicious 
smile.  'I'd  consider  it  a  disgrace  to  me,  my  dear  Hardress,  if  you 
were  to  go  to  bed  sober  after  being  in  my  company  to-night,  the 
last  that  you  are  to  spend  in  the  country.  Come,  come,  Hardress, 
don't  look  fierce,  you  will  have  Miss  Chute  long  enough,  but  here 
are  a  pleasant  set  of  fellows  whom,  perhaps,  you  may  never  see 
round  the  same  table  on  earth  again.' 

'But,  Connolly!' 

'But,  Hardress!' 

'What's  the  matter  there?'  cried  a  rough  voice  from  the  head 
of  the  table.  'Anybody  sneaking?  Bring  him  up  here  by  the 
collar.  If  any  man  leaves  this  room  sober  to-night,  I  shall  make 
it  personal  with  him.' 

The  speaker  (who  was  no  other  than  the  culprit's  father)  added 
an  oath,  and  the  room  rang  with  acclamations.  Hardress,  faint 
with  fear  and  anxiety,  was  compelled  to  return  to  the  table,  and  the 
bowl  was  shortly  circulated  with  that  enthusiasm  which  was  con- 
sidered appropriate  to  the  occasion.  The  wine  which  he  drank, 
and  the  conversation  in  which  he  was  compelled  to  mingle,  gradually 
stole  him  back  into  his  revel  mood,  and  in  a  little  time  he  became 
more  loud  and  seeming  mirthful  than  ever.  The  voice  which  he 
had  heard  might  be  ideal,  as  the  visions  he  had  seen.  He  thought 
no  more  of  it. 

He  became  engaged  in  a  violent  dispute  with  Creagh,  as  to 
whether  the  cascades  of  Killarney  were  the  better  or  worse  for 
being  without  basins.  Hardress  contended  that  the  want  was 
a  defect,  inasmuch  as  it  left  the  beholder  without  that  delightful 

354 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

sensation  which  he  might  gather  from  the  contrast  of  those  two 
most  perfect  images  of  tumult  and  repose— a  roaring  cataract, 
with  its  clouds  of  foam  and  mist,  and  a  smooth  expanse  of  water 
with  its  glancing  and  streaky  light,  and  its  lulling  motion,  like  the 
heaving  of  a  sleeping  infant's  bosom.  Creagh,  on  the  other  hand, 
held  (and  he  defended  the  idea  the  more  stoutly  as  he  happened 
to  hit  on  it  by  accident),  that  the  very  mystery  attending  the  dis- 
appearance of  the  stream,  when  the  spectator  saw  it  hurry  down- 
ward by  his  feet,  still  foaming  and  roaring  on,  until  it  was  hidden 
from  his  view  by  the  closing  thicket  below,  gave  a  greater  idea  to 
the  mind  than  could  be  produced  by  the  contrast  which  Hardress 
admired. 

The  latter  had  his  hand  raised  with  a  cascade  of  eloquence  just 
bursting  from  his  lip,  when  a  warm  breath  came  to  his  ear,  and 
the  same  low  voice  murmured  in  a  tone  still  lower  than  before: 
'Arise,  I  tell  you!  the  army  is  abroad,  and  your  life  in  danger.' 

It  could  not  now  be  an  illusion,  for  the  tresses  of  the  speaker  had 
touched  his  cheek,  and  the  dress  had  brushed  his  feet.  He  dashed 
his  chair  aside,  and  standing  suddenly  erect,  looked  round  him  for 
the  warner.  A  female  dress  just  glanced  on  his  eye  as  he  stared  on 
the  open  door  which  led  to  the  hall.  He  followed  it  with  so  much 
rapidity  no  one  could  find  time  to  interfere;  but  the  hall  was  empty 
of  living  figures.  He  only  saw  the  cloaks  and  hats  of  the  visitors 
hanging  against  the  wall,  while  the  dusky  flame  of  a  globe  lamp 
threw  a  gloomy  and  dispiriting  light  upon  the  walls  and  ceiling. 
On  one  side,  the  floor  was  shaken  by  the  dancers  and  the  ear  stunned 
with  the  music  of  bagpipe,  violin,  and  dulcimer.  On  the  other  he 
heard  the  bacchanalian  uproar  of  the  party  he  had  left.  At  a 
distance,  in  the  kitchen,  he  could  distinguish  the  sound  of  one 
solitary  bagpipe,  playing  some  ah-  of  a  more  rapid  and  vulgar 
character;  while  the  voice  of  a  villager,  penetrating  in  triumph 
through  a  two-foot  wall  of  stone  and  mortar,  was  heard  singing  some 
wild  and  broken  melody,  which  was  meant  for  mirth,  but  in  which 
a  stranger  ear  might  have  detected  a  greater  depth  of  pathos  and 
of  feeling  than  the  composer  probably  intended.  Snatching  his  hat 
and  coat,  and  trembling  in  every  joint,  Hardress  was  about  to 
hurry  down  a  narrow  staircase  leading  to  the  yard-door,  when  his 
mother  with  a  bridesmaid  met  him  on  the  way. 

' Come  this  way,  Hardress,'  said  she.  'I  have  a  partner  engaged 
for  you.' 

355 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'Mother,'  said  Hardress,  with  the  horrid  sense  of  oppression 
which  one  feels  in  a  dream  of  danger  and  vain  resistance,  'take 
your  hand  from  my  arm  and  let  me  pass.' 

Mrs.  Cregan  imagined  that  as,  in  compliance  with  an  estab- 
lished superstition,  patronized  by  some  of  the  old  people,  the 
bridegroom  was  not  to  sleep  in  the  house  on  the  night  before  the 
bridal,  Hardress  was  thus  early  preparing  to  comply  with  the  old 
custom. 

'You  must  not  go  so  soon,'  returned  Mrs.  Cregan.  'Come, 
Miss  Prendergast,  make  that  arm  prisoner  and  lead  him  to  the 
ball-room.' 

Hardress,  with  a  beating  pulse,  resigned  himself  to  his  fate,  and 
accompanied  the  ladies  to  the  dancing-room.  Here  he  remained 
for  some  time,  endeavouring,  but  with  a  faint  spirit,  to  meet  and 
answer  the  gaiety  of  his  companions.  After  dancing  a  minuet 
with  a  good  deal  of  silent  approbation,  he  led  his  fair  partner  to 
her  seat,  and  taking  a  chair  at  her  side,  began  to  entertain  her,  as 
well  as  he  could,  while  other  dancers  occupied  the  floor.  His 
chair  was  placed  a  few  yards  distant  from  an  open  door,  at  which 
a  crowd  of  the  servants  and  tenants  appeared,  thrusting  in  their 
heads,  and  staring  on  the  dancers  for  the  purposes  of  admiration 
and  of  satire,  as  the  occasion  might  arise. 

One  of  these,  a  handsome  country  lad,  had  encroached  so  far 
as  to  get  within  a  foot  or  two  of  Hardress's  chair,  and  to  be  recog- 
nised by  him  with  some  appearance  of  kindness. 

'Master  Hardress,'  he  said,  stooping  to  his  ear,  'did  Syl  Carney 
tell  you  anything  ? ' 

'No!'  said  Hardress,  turning  suddenly  round,  and  neglecting 
to  finish  some  observation  which  he  was  in  the  act  of  making  to 
his  fair  companion. 

'Why,  then,  never  welcome  her!'  said  the  lad.  'I  told  her  to 
slip  in  a  word  to  you,  some  way,  to  let  you  know  that  Danny  Mann 
has  given  information,  and  the  army  are  out  this  night.' 

Hardress  trembled,  as  if  the  grasp  of  the  hangman  had  been 
laid  upon  him. 

'What  a  shocking  dance  that  hornpipe  is!'  exclaimed  the  lady. 
'I  am  always  reminded  when  I  see  it  of  the  dampers  of  a  piano.' 

'Precisely,  indeed,'  said  Hardress,  with  a  smile  like  death,  'very 
ridiculous  indeed.  Tell  me  how  you  know  of  this,'  he  said  apart 
to  the  boy;  '  speak  low  and  quickly.' 

356 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'From  a  little  hunchback  in  bridewell  at  magistrate  Warner's  ' 
returned  the  lad.  '  He  bid  me— but  the  lady  is  talking  to  you.' 

1 1  beg  your  pardon,'  said  Hardress,  turning  quickly  round. 

'It  was  not  I,'  said  the  fair  dancer;  'it  was  Mrs.  Cregan  called 
you.' 

He  looked  at  his  mother,  and  saw  her  holding  towards  him  a 
small  basket  of  confectionery  and  oranges,  while  she  glanced 
towards  the  ladies.  Hardress  rose  to  perform  this  piece  of  gallantry, 
with  a  sensation  of  gloomy  resignation,  and  with  a  feeling  of  bitter- 
ness towards  his  unhappy  parent,  as  if  she  ought  to  have  known 
that  she  was  knotting  the  cord  upon  his  life. 

When  it  was  done,  he  hurried  back  to  his  seat,  but  the  servants 
were  all  gone,  and  the  door  was  closed.  He  stole  from  the  apart- 
ment to  the  hall,  once  more  resumed  his  hat,  and  ascending  the 
small  flight  of  steps  leading  to  the  chamber  so  often  mentioned, 
he  was  once  more  upon  the  point  of  freedom. 

But  the  grasp  of  an  avenging  Providence  was  laid  upon  his  life. 
In  the  middle  of  this  chamber  he  encountered  the  bride,  alone. 

'  Hardress,'  said  she, '  are  you  leaving  us  for  the  night  ? ' 

'I  am,'  he  murmured,  in  a  faint  voice,  and  passed  on. 

'Stay,  Hardress!'  said  Anne,  laying  her  hand  upon  his  arm.  'I 
have  something  to  say  which  I  am  anxious  you  should  know 
immediately.' 

This  last  interruption  completed  the  confusion  of  the  bride- 
groom. A  sudden  faintness  fell  on  his  whole  frame,  his  brain 
grew  dizzy,  his  senses  swam,  and  he  reeled  like  one  intoxicated 
into  a  vacant  chair. 

'Well,  Anne,'  said  he,  'anything— everything— my  life  itself,  if 
you  think  it  worth  your  while  to  require  it.' 

'I  owe  it  to  my  own  peace,  and  even  to  yours,  Hardress,'  said 
Anne,  'to  tell  you  that  I  have  discovered  all.' 

'Discovered  all!'  echoed  Hardress,  springing  to  his  feet. 

<Yes — all.  A  generous  friend,  generous  to  you  and  me  alike, 
has  given  the  whole  history  of  your  cause  of  suffering,  and  left  me 
nothing  to  regret,  but  that  Hardress  should  not  have  thought  it 
worth  his  while  to  make  Anne  a  partner  in  his  confidence.  But 
that  I  have  forgotten  likewise,  and  have  only  now  to  say,  that  I 
regret  my  own  conduct  as  much  as  I  once  was  grieved  for  yours. 
I  must  have  added  to  the  pain  which — Hark! ' 

'What  do  you  hear?'  cried  Hardress,  crouching  fearfully. 

357 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

'There  is  a  tumult  in  the  drawing-room.  Good  heaven,  defend 
our  hearts !  What  is  that  noise  ? ' 

The  door  of  the  room  was  thrown  open,  and  a  female  figure 
appeared,  with  hair  disordered,  and  hands  outspread  with  an 
action  of  warning  and  avoidance. 

'Hardress,  my  child!' 

'Well,  mother?' 

'Hardress,  my  child!' 

'Mother,  I  am  here!  Look  on  me! — Speak  to  me!  Don't  gasp, 
and  stare  on  your  son  in  that  horrid  way!  Oh,  mother,  speak,  or 
you  will  break  my  heart!' 

'Fly — fly — my  child — Not  that  way!  No!  The  doors  are 
all  defended.  There  is  a  soldier  set  on  every  entrance.  You  are 
trapped  and  caught.  What  shall  we  do?  The  window!  Come 
this  way — come — quick — quick ! ' 

She  drew  him  passively  after  her  into  her  own  sleeping-chamber, 
which  lay  immediately  adjoining.  Before  Anne  had  made  one 
movement,  from  the  attitude  of  sudden  fear  and  wonder  to  which 
this  strange  occurrence  had  given  rise,  Mrs.  Cregan  again  appeared 
in  the  chamber,  showing  in  her  look  and  action  the  same  hurried 
and  disordered  energy  of  mind. 

'  Go  to  your  room! '  she  said,  addressing  the  bride.  ' Go  quickly 
to  your  room,  stop  not  to  question  me — ' 

'Dear  aunt! — ' 

'Away,  I  say!  you  will  drive  me  frantic,  girl!  My  reason  is 
already  stretched  to  its  full  tension,  and  a  single  touch  may  rend 
it.  Go,  my  dear  child,  my  love !  my  wretched Ha ! 

'Anne  Chute!  Where's  Anne?'  exclaimed  an  anxious  voice 
at  the  doorway.  'Where  is  the  bride?' 

'Here,  here!'  said  Mrs.  Cregan. 

Kyrle  Daly  rushed  into  the  room,  his  face  paler  than  ever,  and 
his  eye  filled  with  an  anxious  inquiry. 

'Come  this  way,  Anne!'  he  said,  taking  her  hand,  while  his  own 
were  trembling  with  anxiety.  'Unhappy  bride!  Oh,  horrid — 
fearful  night !  Come — come ! ' 

'I  will  not  stir!'  exclaimed  the  bride  with  vehemence.  'What 
mean  those  words  and  actions?  There  is  some  danger  threatens 
Hardress! — Tell  me,  if  there  is — ' 

'Take  her  away,  good  Kyrle.' 

'He  shall  not  take  me  hence.    Why  should  he?    Why  does  he 

358 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

call  me  an  unhappy  bride?    Why  does  he  say  this  night  is  horrid 
and  fearful  ?    I  will  not  stir — ' 

'They  are  coming!— force  her  hence,  good  Kyrle,'  muttered  the 
expectant  mother. 

Struggling  in  his  arms,  and  opposing  prayers,  threats,  and 
entreaties  to  the  gentle  violence  which  he  employed,  Kyrle  Daly 
bore  the  affrighted  bride  away  from  the  apartment.  He  remained 
by  her  side  during  the  whole  evening,  often  soothing  her  anxiety 
by  his  ready  eloquence,  and  watching  every  movement  of  her  mind 
and  feelings,  with  the  tender  vigilance  of  a  near  and  devoted 
relative. 

Mrs.  Cregan,  meanwhile,  remained  alone  in  the  room,  her  ear 
bent  to  catch  the  first  sounds  of  approaching  danger,  and  her 
frame  made  rigid  with  the  intensity  of  feeling.  Her  hands  were 
employed,  while  in  this  attitude,  in  arranging  her  hair,  and  re- 
moving as  far  as  possible  every  appearance  of  disorder  from  her 
dress.  At  length  the  clatter  of  muskets  and  the  tramp  of  many 
feet  was  heard  in  the  little  hall.  A  momentary  convulsion  shook 
her  frame.  It  passed  away,  and  she  rose  to  her  usual  height  and 
her  customary  stateliness  of  eye  and  gesture. 

At  the  same  moment  the  door  opened,  and  Mr.  Warner,  accom- 
panied by  Captain  Gibson  and  the  military  party,  appeared  upon 
the  little  staircase.  The  first-mentioned  seemed  surprised,  and 
somewhat  embarrassed,  at  the  sight  of  Mrs.  Cregan.  He  murmured 
something  of  his  regret  at  being  compelled  to  do  what  must  be  so 
painful  to  her,  and  was  proceeding  to  recommend  that  she  should 
retire,  when  she  cut  short  the  speech. 

'Talk  not  to  me,  sir,'  she  said,  'of  your  regret  or  your  reluctance. 
You  have  already  done  your  worst  to  fix  a  stigma  on  our  name, 
and  a  torture  in  our  memories.  For  months,  for  weeks,  and  days, 
my  son  spoke  with  you,  laughed  with  you,  and  walked  freely  and 
openly  among  you,  and  then  you  laid  no  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 
You  waited  for  his  wedding-day,  to  raise  your  lying  cry  of  murder; 
you  waited  to  see  how  many  hearts  you  might  crush  together  at  5 
blow  You  have  done  the  worst  of  evil  in  your  power;  you  have 
dismayed  our  guests,  scattered  terror  amid  our  festival,  and  mad 
the  remembrance  of  this  night,  which  should  have  been  a  happy 
one,  a  thought  of  gloom  and  shame.' 

'My  duty,'  murmured  the  magistrate,  'obliged  me  to  sacnnce- 

'  Complete  your  duty,  then,'  said  the  mother  haughtily,   an, 

359 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

not  speak  of  your  personal  regrets.  If  justice  and  my  son  are 
foes,  what  place  do  you  fill  between  them?  You  mistake  your 
calling,  Mr.  Magistrate :  you  have  no  personal  feelings  in  this  trans- 
action. You  are  a  servant  of  the  law,  and,  as  a  servant,  act.' 

Mr.  Warner  bowed,  and  directed  the  soldiers  to  follow  him 
into  the  inner  room.  At  this  order  Mrs.  Cregan  turned  her  face 
over  her  shoulder  with  a  ghastly  smile. 

'That,'  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  calm  reproach,  'that  is  my  sleeping- 
chamber.' 

'My  duty,  madam.' 

'Be  it  so/  said  Mrs.  Cregan,  in  a  low  voice,  and  turning  away 
her  face  with  the  same  painful  smile,  while  her  heart  crept  and 
trembled. 

The  party  entered  the  room. 

'I  hope,'  said  Captain  Gibson,  who  really  began  to  think  that 
Mrs.  Cregan  had  a  great  deal  of  reason,  'I  hope  Mrs.  Cregari  will 
not  blame  me  for  my  part  in  this  transaction.' 

'I  do  not  blame  you,'  said  the  mother,  with  a  scornful  smile;  'it 
is  your  trade.' 

At  this  portentous  moment,  Mr.  Cregan,  Mr.  Connolly,  and  two 
or  three  other  gentlemen  came  reeling  into  the  apartment,  excessively 
intoxicated,  and  retaining  consciousness  enough  to  feel  a  sense 
of  injury,  not  fully  understood,  and  a  vague  purpose  of  resistance. 

'Dora,'  said  Mr.  Cregan,  staggering  towards  her,  and  endeavour- 
ing to  look  sober,  'what  are  you  doing  here?  What's  the  matter?' 

Mrs.  Cregan,  her  whole  soul  absorbed  by  the  proceedings  in  the 
inner  room,  did  not  even  appear  to  be  conscious  of  his  presence. 

'Very — very  extraordinary  conduct,'  he  said,  turning  an  un- 
steady eye  upon  the  Captain.  'Soldiers,  officers,  eh,  Connolly?' 

'Very,  very  extraordinary  conduct,'  echoed  Connolly. 

'Do  they  take  the  house  for  a  barrack?'  continued  Cregan. 
'  Captain,  withdraw  your  soldiers.' 

Captain  Gibson,  already  annoyed  by  the  taunt  of  Mrs.  Cregan, 
returned  this  demand  by  a  stern  look. 

'Stand  by  me,  Connolly.  Your  swords,  gentlemen!'  cried 
Cregan,  as  he  drew  his  own. 

The  others  imitated  his  example.  Captain  Gibson,  without 
condescending  to  unsheath  his  own  weapon,  turned  to  his  men, 
and  beckoning  his  finger,  said: 

'Disarm  those  drunken  gentlemen.' 

360 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

His  orders  were  obeyed  upon  the  instant,  a  few  slight  scratches 
being  all  that  was  sustained  by  the  soldiers  in  the  drunken  scuffle 
that  ensued.  The  gentlemen  were  placed  with  their  hands  tied 
on  chairs  at  the  other  side  of  the  room,  and  the  bundle  of  rapiers  was 
laid  upon  the  window-seat. 

'Very  well,  sir,  very  well,'  said  Mr.  Cregan;  'I  shall  remember 
this,  and  so  shall  my  friends.  I  am  a  gentleman,  sir,  and  shall 
look  for  the  satisfaction  of  a  gentleman.' 

'Expect  the  same  from  me,'  said  Connolly,  swinging  his  person 
round  upon  the  chair. 

'And  me,'  said  a  third. 

'And  rne,'  echoed  a  fourth.  ^ 

'I  little  expected  to  meet  with  such  a  return  as  this  for  our 
hospitality,'  continued  Mr.  Cregan. 

'For  shame!  for  shame,  Cregan!'  said  the  unhappy  mother;  'do 
not  degrade  yourself  and  your  friends  by  such  remonstrances. 
The  hand  of  an  enemy  is  raised  against  us,  and  let  not  the  un- 
worthy being  think  that  he  can  sink  us  as  low  in  mind  as  in  our 
fortunes.' 

Captain  Gibson,  who  took  no  notice  of  the  gentlemen,  again 
seemed  hurt  to  the  quick,  perhaps  not  wisely,  by  this  allusion  from 
the  lady. 

'  Mrs.  Cregan,'  he  said,  '  it  is  one  of  the  most  painful  duties  of  a 
gentleman  in  my  situation,  that  he  must  sometimes  be  subjected 
to  such  insinuations  as  those;  and  it  is  only  the  peculiar  circum- 
stances in  which  you  are  placed  that  would  prevent  my  forming  a 
very  harsh  judgment  of  any  lady  who  could  use  them.' 

'Sir,'  said  Mrs.  Creg'an,  lowering  her  head  with  a  smile  of  the 
most  bitter  irony,  'your  consideration  and  your  forbearance  are 
extraordinary.  All  the  events  of  this  night  bear  witness  to  it. 
It  must'have  surely  been  with  much  violence  to  that  fine  gentlemanly 
spirit  that  you  chose  a  moment  like  this  for  your  investigation.  But 
I  see  you  are  impatient,  sir,  and  I  will  desist,  for  you  are  a  soldier, 
and  I  am  but  a  female,  and  it  is  easy  to  see  who  would  have  the  best 
of  the  argument.' 

'Madam! — 

'  Our  friends  dispersed,  our  mirth  so  quickly  changed  into  terror, 
this  scene  of  confusion  at  our  domestic  festivity— everything,  sir, 
bears  testimony  to  your  forbearance.  That  sensitive  and  gentle- 
manly nature,  that  is  so  tender  of  insinuations,  appears  in  all  the 

361 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

actions  jof  this  night.  My  husband  tied  there  like  a  malefactor, 
and  my  poor  son — Ah!  shield  and  hide  us,  earth! — I  hear  his 
voice ! ' 

A  bustle  was  heard  in  the  inner  room,  and  the  wretched  lady, 
throwing  her  arms  high  above  her  head,  uttered  a  shriek  so  loud, 
so  shrill  and  piercing,  that  the  stoutest  soldier  started  like  a  maiden, 
and  the  flush  of  anger  upon  the  soldier's  cheek  was  changed  to  a 
death-like  paleness.  Half  sobered  by  the  fearful  sound,  the  intoxi- 
cated father  rose  from  his  chair,  and  turned  a  dull  eye  upon  the 
room-door,  while  every  figure  on  the  scene  expressed  in  various 
degrees  the  same  feeling  of  commiseration  and  anxiety. 

' The  prisoner  is  here! '  cried  Warner,  hurrying  into  the  room. 

'Is  he?'  shrieked  the  distracted  and  almost  delirious  mother. 
'Dark  bloodhound,  have  ye  found  him?  May  the  tongue  that 
tells  me  so  be  withered  from  the  roots,  and  the  eye  that  first  detected 
him  be  darkened  in  its  socket!' 

'Peace,  shocking  woman,'  said  the  magistrate;  'your  curses  only 
add  to  the  offense  that  heaven  has  already  suffered.' 

*What!'  cried  the  unhappy  parent,  'shall  it  be  for  nothing,  then, 
that  you  have  stung  the  mother's  heart,  and  set  the  mother's  brain 
on  fire?  I  tell  you,  no!  My  tongue  may  hold  its  peace,  but  there 
is  not  a  vein  in  all  my  frame  but  curses  you !  My  child !  My  child ! ' 
she  screamed  aloud  on  seeing  Hardress  at  the  door.  She  rushed, 
as  if  with  the  intent  of  flinging  herself  upon  his  neck,  but  checking 
the  impulse  as  she  came  near,  she  clasped  her  hands,  and  sinking 
at  his  feet,  exclaimed,  '  My  child,  forgive  me ! ' 

'Forgive  you,  mother?'  replied  her  son,  in  a  wretched  voice;  'I 
have  destroyed  you  all!' 

'The  crime  was  mine,'  exclaimed  the  miserable  parent;  'I  was 
the  author  of  your  first  temptation,  the  stumbling-block  between 
you  and  repentance.  You  will  think  bitterly  of  me,  Hardress, 
when  you  are  alone.' 

'  Never! '  said  Hardress,  raising  her  to  his  arms.  '  Still  honoured, 
always  well-meaning  and  affectionate,  I  will  never  think  of  you 
but  as  a  mother.  My  eyes  are  opened  now.  For  the  first  time 
in  many  weary  months,  the  first  thought  of  peace  is  in  my  heart; 
and  but  for  you,  and  those  whom  I  have  made  wretched  with  you, 
I  would  call  that  thought  a  thought  of  joy.  Grieve  no  more, 
mother,  for  my  sake.  Grieve  not,  because  it  is  in  vain.  The  bolt 
is  sped,  the  victim  has  been  struck,  and  earth  has  not  a  remedy.  . 

362 


Sinking  at  his  feet,  exclaimed,  "  My  child  forgive  me!" 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

Grieve  not,  because  I  would  not  have  it  otherwise.  A  victim  was 
due  to  Justice,  and  she  shall  no  longer  be  defrauded.  I  had 
rather  reckon  with  her  here  than  in  a  future  world.' 

'I  cannot  part  with  you,'  murmured  his  mother,  while  her  head 
rested  on  his  shoulder;  'do  not  put  away  my  hands  awhile.  It  is 
tearing  my  very  heart  up!' 

'Dear  mother,  let  me  go,'  said  Hardress,  gently  disengaging 
himself;  'we  shall  meet  again,  I  hope.  In  the  meantime,  hear  my 
farewell  request,  as  you  have  heard  all  that  I  have  ever  made.— 
Waste  not  your  days  in  idle  retrospection,  but  pray  for  me  with 
fervour. — Be  kind  to  those  whom  I  have  loved,  and  remember  that 
my  death,  at  least,  was  happier  than  my  life.' 

'I  threatened  you  with  poverty!'  muttered  Mrs.  Cregan,  while 
her  memory  glanced  wildly  through  the  past. 

'Dear  mother! — ' 

'I  bade  you  leave  my  house,  or  do  my  pleasure — ' 

'Why  will  you  vex  my  soul  at  such  a  moment?' 

'I  have  tied  the  cord  upon  your  throat!  I  slighted  your  scruples. 
Your  own  dread  words  come  back  upon  me  now.  Those  words 
which  I  heard  with  so  little  emotion  at  Dinis,  and  in  this  hall,  before, 
now  ring  like  the  peal  of  dead  bells  in  my  ear.  I  have  been  your 
fellest  foe.  You  drank  in  pride  with  my  milk,  and  passion  under 
my  indulgence.  I  have  destroyed  you  for  this  world,  and — 

'My  dear,  dear  mother!'  cried  Hardress,  clasping  her  to  his 
breast,  and  bursting  into  tears  of  shame  and  penitence,  'forget, 
I  implore  you,  those  impious  and  reproachful  words.  They 
were  the  ravings  of  my  madness,  and  should  not  be  regarded. 
Hear  me,  now,  in  the  full  and  calm  possession  of  my  judgment, 
and  let  those  words  only  be  remembered.  Do  you  hear  me,  my 
dear  mother?' 

'I  do— I  am  listening  to  you;  speak,  my  child,  I  will  remember 
well.' 

Hardress  stooped  to  her  ear,  and  murmured  in  a  low  voice,  'In 
a  secret  drawer  of  my  cabinet  you  will  find  a  paper  unsealed.  Give 
it  to—'  he  paused,  and  bowed  down  a  moment  in  deep  agitation 
—'to  Anne  Chute.  I  am  glad  she  bears  that  name— glad  of  her 
fortune  in  escaping  me.  Let  her  read  that  paper.  I  have  penned 
it  with  the  view  of  rendering  justice  to  a  confiding  friend,  whose 
confidence  I  have  betrayed.  Oh,  memory!  memory!  But 
look  forward  now,  not  back.  Ah,  mother,  if  I  had  really  known 

363 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

how  to  value  your  affectionate  counsels  in  my  childhood — if  I  had 
only  humbled  my  heart  to  a  belief  in  its  own  weakness,  and  a  ready 
obedience  to  your  will  in  my  younger  days,  I  should  not  die  in  my 
youth  a  shameful  death,  and  leave  you  childless  in  your  age.' 

'Aye,'  said  Mrs.  Cregan,  'or  if  I  had  done  the  duty  of  a  mother 
• — if  I  had  thought  less  of  your  worldly  and  more  of  your  eternal 
happiness.  My  brain  is  scorched!' 

'  My  dear,  fond  parent,  will  you  add  to  my  agony  ? ' 

'You  will  hate  me  in  your  prison.' 

'Never!—' 

'I  know  what  you  will  say,  when  they  are  dragging  you  to  the 
scaffold.  "  It  is  my  mother,"  you  will  say,  "  that  has  bound  these 
cords  upon  my  limbs!  "  The  people  will  stare  on  you,  and  you  will 
hang  your  head,  and  say  that  I  was  the  author  of  your  shame. 
And  in  the  moment  of  your  death — ' 

'I  will  pray  for  you!'  said  Hardress,  pressing  her  to  him,  and 
kissing  her  forehead,  'as  you  will  do  for  me.'  While  he  spoke  he 
felt  the  arms  that  encircled  his  neck  grow  rigid,  and  the  face 
that  looked  up  to  his  was  overspread  v/ith  a  damp  and  leaden 
paleness. 

'  Farewell,  dear  mother,  for  the  present,'  he  continued,  '  and 
remember —  Oh,  she  is  growing  cold  and  weak! — remove  her, 
remove  her  quickly,  gentlemen!' 

She  was  borne  out  in  a  half-fainting  condition;  and  Hardress, 
surrendering  himself  to  the  hands  of  the  soldiers,  prepared  to  depart. 
Turning  round  once  more  before  he  left  the  room,  he  said  aloud: 

'Hear  me,  and  testify  against  me,  if  it  shall  please  you.  Lest 
my  returning  feebleness,  or  the  base  love  of  life,  should  tempt  me 
once  again  to  shun  my  destiny,  I  am  willing  here  to  multiply  my 
witnesses.  I  am  guilty  of  the  crime  with  which  you  charge  me — 
guilty,  not  in  act,  nor  guilty  even  in  word,  nor  positive,  implied 
assent,  but  guilty  yet,  beyond  even  the  wish  for  pardon.  I  am 
glad  this  hideous  dream  at  length  is  ended — glad  that  I  have  been 
forced  to  render  up  her  right  to  Justice,  even  against  my  will,  for  I 
was  sick  of  my  anxieties.' 

He  ceased,  and  the  party  proceeded  down  the  narrow  staircase 
leading  to  the  hall-door,  Hardress  being  placed  in  the  centre.  In  a 
few  minutes,  the  lighted  chambers  of  the  castle,  its  affrighted 
revellers,  its  silenced  musicians,  the  delirious  mother,  the  drunken 
father  and  his  band  of  brawlers,  the  bewildered  bride,  and  all  the 

364 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

scattered  pomp  of  the  espousal,  were  lost  forever  to  the  eye  of  the 
unhappy  Hardress. 

Some  apprehension  wes  entertained  lest  any  injudicious  person 
amongst  the  peasantry  should  occasion  the  useless  loss  of  lives,  by 
attempting  a  rescue,  before  the  party  left  the  neighbourhood;  'but 
no  symptoms  of  such  an  intention  were  manifested  by  the  people. 
The  whole  transaction  had  been  conducted  with  so  much  rapidity 
that  the  circumstance  of  the  bridegroom's  capture  was  not  generally 
known,  even  in  the  castle,  for  some  time  after  his  departure. 


CHAPTER  XLV 

HOW  THE  STORY  ENDED 

IT  only  remains  for  us  to  inform  the  reader,  in  general  terms, 
of  the  subsequent  fortunes  of  the  various  actors  in  this 
domestic  drama.  Such  is  the  fate  of  the  historian: .  regarded  only 
as  the  chronicler  of  events  or  feelings  in  which  he  has  no  share, 
his  claim  to  attention  rests  only  upon  these.  While  they  continue 
to  awaken  interest,  he  may  toy  and  dally  as  he  pleases — he  may 
deck  his  style  with  flowers,  indulge  his  fancy  in  description,  and 
even  please  his  vanity  with  metaphysical  speculation.  But  when 
the  real  matter  of  the  tale  is  out — farewell  his  hobbies!  Stern  and 
brief  must  thenceforth  be  the  order  of  his  speech,  and  listlessness 
or  apathy  become  the  guerdon  of  his  wanderings.  He  is  mortified 
to  find  that  what  he  mistook  for  interest  was  only  patience,  and  that 
the  attention  which  he  imagined  to  be  bestowed  upon  himself  was 
only  lavished  on  the  automata  which  his  fingers  exercised. 

Stern  and  brief,  then,  be  the  order  of  our  speech  henceforward. 
Unhappily,  a  portion  of  our  incident  will  fit  that  manner  well. 

The  remorse  of  Hardress  led  him  even  to  exaggerate  his  own 
share  in  the  transaction  on  which  the  foregoing  measures  were 
founded.  Nevertheless,  when  all  the  circumstances  of  the  case 
had  been  fully  considered,  the  mercy  of  the  executive  power  was 
extended  to  his  life,  and  a  perpetual  exile  from  his  native  land  was 
the  only  forfeit  which  he  paid  to  the  outraged  law.  But 
this  alteration  in  his  destiny  had  been  announced  to  him,  Hardress 
had  learned  to  receive  it  with  great  indifference.  With  the  t 

365 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

of  an  ancient  penitent,  he  persisted  in  refusing  to  hold  personal 
communication  with  any  of  his  friends,  his  mother  only  excepted, 
and  even  she  was  cheated  (by  a  necessary  device,  for  her  health 
could  not  have  sustained  it)  of  the  last  parting  interview. 

The  mitigation  of  punishment,  which  was  intended  to  save  his 
life,  had  only  the  effect  of  sparing  him  the  ignominy  of  such  a  fate. 
An  occurrence  which  took  place  on  the  day  of  his  departure  com- 
pleted the  ruin  which  ill-health  had  long  been  making  in  his  con- 
stitution. 

The  convict  ship  which  was  to  bear  him  from  his  home  had 
cleared  out  of  port,  and  lay  at  anchor  in  that  part  of  the  river 
which,  from  its  basin-like  appearance,  has  received  the  appropriate 
denomination  of  the  Pool.  In  the  grey  of  a  summer  morning, 
the  prisoners,  Hardress  amongst  the  number,  left  the  gaol  in  the 
King's  Island  where  they  had  been  confined,  for  the  purpose  of 
occupying  their  places  on  board.  Arrived  at  the  riverside,  the 
party  halted  with  their  guard,  while  a  smah1  boat  was  let  down 
from  the  vessel's  stern,  and  manned  for  the  shore.  It  touched  the 
strand,  and  received  its  lading  of  exiles.  It  could  not  hold  the 
entire  party,  and  Hardress,  who  felt  a  sudden  and  (to  him)  unac- 
countable reluctance  to  leave  his  native  soil,  while  it  was  possible 
for  him  yet  to  feel  its  turf  beneath  his  feet,  petitioned  to  be  left  until 
the  return  of  the  pinnace. 

He  looked  to  the  misty  hills  of  Cratloe,  to  the  yet  silent  and 
inactive  city,  and  over  the  face  of  the  gently  agitated  waters.  The 
fresh,  cool  light  of  the  morning  only  partially  revealed  the  scene, 
but  the  veil  that  rested  on  the  face  of  nature  became  more  attenuated 
at  every  instant,  and  the  aerial  perspective  acquired  by  rapid,  yet 
imperceptible,  degrees  a  greater  scope  and  clearness.  Groups 
of  bathers  appeared  at  various  distances  on  both  sides  of  the  river, 
some  plunging  in  headlong  from  the  lofty  quays,  some  playing 
various  antics  in  the  water,  and  some  floating  quietly  on  the  surface 
of  the  tide  in  the  centre  of  the  stream,  while  others,  half  dressed 
and  shivering  at  the  brink  of  the  sloping  strands,  put  in  a  hand  or 
foot  to  ascertain  the  temperature  of  the  refreshing  element,  before 
they  ventured  to  fling  off  their  remaining  habiliments  and  share  in 
the  salutary  recreation. 

In  other  respects  the  scene  was  nearly  the  same  in  appearance  as 
it  has  been  described  in  the  third  chapter  of  this  volume.  Nature, 
always  the  same  calm  and  provident  benefactress,  had  preserved 

366 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

her  mighty  heart  unchanged  throughout  the  interval,  and  the 
same  joyous  serenity  was  still  visible  upon  her  countenance.  The 
passions  of  men  may  convulse  the  frame  of  society,  the  duration 
of  human  prosperity  may  be  uncertain  as  that  of  human  woe,  and 
centuries  of  ignorance,  of  poverty,  and  of  civil  strife  may  suddenly 
succeed  to  years  of  science  and  thrift  and  peace.  But  still  the 
mighty  mother  holds  her  course  unchanged.  Spring  succeeds 
winter,  and  summer  spring,  and  all  the  harmonies  of  her  great 
system  move  on  through  countless  ages  with  the  same  unvarying 
serenity  of  purpose.  The  scene  of  his  happy  childhood  evinced 
no  sympathy  with  the  condition  of  the  altered  Hardress. 

He  turned,  with  an  aching  heart,  from  the  contemplation  of  the 
landscape,  and  his  eye  encountered  a  spectacle  more  accordant  to 
his  present  feelings.  The  row  of  houses  which  lined  the  quay  on 
which  the  party  halted  consisted  for  the  most  part,  of  coffin-makers' 
shops,  a  gloomy  trade,  although,  to  judge  by  the  reckless  faces 
of  the  workmen,  it  would  appear  that  'custom  had  made  it  with 
them  a  property  of  easiness.' 

Only  one  of  those  dismal  houses  of  traffic  was  open  at  this  early 
hour,  and  the  light  which  burned  in  the  interior  showed  that  the 
proprietor  was  called  to  the  exercise  of  his  craft  at  this  unseasonable 
time  by  some  sudden  and  pressing  call.  The  profession  of  the  man 
was  not  indicated,  as  in  more  wealthy  and  populous  cities,  by  a 
sculptured  lid  or  gilded  and  gaudy  hatchment  suspended  at  a 
window-pane.  A  pile  of  the  unfinished  shells,  formed  for  all  ages, 
from  childhood  to  maturity,  were  thrust  out  at  the  open  window 
to  attract  the  eye  of  the  relatives  of  the  newly  dead.  The  artificer 
himself  appeared  in  the  interior  of  his  workshop,  in  his  working 
dress,  and,  plane  in  hand,  was  employed  in  giving  the  last  touch  to 
an  oaken  coffin  placed  lengthways  on  his  bench.  Its  size  denoted 
that  the  intended  occupant  had  died  in  the  full  maturity  of  man- 
hood. 

While  Hardress  watched  him  plying  his  melancholy  trade  in 
silence,  a  horseman  rode  up  to  the  door,  and  dismounted  with  some 
awkwardness  and  difficulty.  He  was  a  small,  red-haired  man, 
•and  Hardress  thought  that  the  face  and  manner  were  not  altogether 
new  to  his  observation.  Another  horseman  followed,  and  alighted 
with  more  ease  and  alertness.  He  was  tall  and  well-formed,  and 
Hardress  shrank  aside  from  his  gaze,  for  in  this  person  he  recognised 
one  of  the  witnesses  who  had  appeared  against  him  at  his  trial. 

367 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

Leaning  against  one  of  the  short  posts  used  for  the  purpose  of 
holding  the  cables  of  the  shipping,  and  once  more  turning  his  face 
toward  the  river,  Hardress  listened  to  the  conversation  which 
ensued. 

'Servant  kindly,  Mr.  Moran,'  said  the  smaller  man.  'Well,  is 
the  coffin  ready?' 

'What  time  will  it  be  wanted?'  was  the  reply. 

'The  car  will  be  here  in  half  an  hour.  Father  Edward  bid  me 
to  step  on  before,  in  dread  you  wouldn't  have  it  done.  If  it  wasn't 
out  of  regard  for  him  and  his,  indeed,  I'd  rather  be  spared  the 
jaunt,  for  I  was  always  a  poor  horseman,  and  I  think  it  jolting 
enough  I'll  get  between  this  and  the  churchyard.' 

'And  where '11  he  be  buried?' 

'At  Mungret  church,  westwards.  His  people  are  all  buried  at 
St.  John's;  but  he  took  it  as  a  delight  to  be  buried  at  Mungret, 
because  it  was  there  his  daughter  was  buried  before  him.' 

A  deep  groan  escaped  the  second  horseman  as  he  said  these 
words. 

'No  wonder  for  you  to  be  heartbroken!'  exclaimed  the  first. 
*  Old  and  good  friends  were  parted  when  they  were  taken  from  you. 
The  poor  old  man !  'twas  enough  to  convert  a  Turk  to  hear  him  on 
his  death-bed  giving  his  forgiveness  to  all  the  world,  and  praying 
for  his  enemies.  A  year  since,  as  you  know  well,  Myles  Murphy, 
Mihil  O'Connor  and  his  daughter  were  a  happy  pair;  but  he  never 
raised  his  head  from  the  day  she  left  his  floor.  Well,  well,  'tis  thrue 
for  Father  Edward  what  he  says,  that  this  world  would  be  good  for 
nothing,  if  there  was  not  another.' 

At  this  moment  a  soldier  touched  the  arm  of  Hardress,  and  pointed 
to  the  pinnace,  whose  keel  just  grated  on  the  gravelled  strand. 
With  a  rigid  and  terrified  countenance  Hardress  arose,  and  was 
about  to  hurry  down  the  steps  leading  from  the  quay,  when  his 
strength  suddenly  failed  him,  and  he  would  have  fallen  headlong 
to  the  bottom  but  for  the  timely  aid  of  his  escort. 

When  he  recovered  from  the  confusion  which  this  attack  occa- 
sioned in  his  brain,  he  found  himself  seated  on  the  deck  of  the  vessel, 
her  canvas  wings  outspread,  and  the  shores  of  his  native  soil  fleeting 
rapidly  away  on  either  side.  He  looked,  as  the  ship  swept  on,  to 
the  cottage  of  the  Dalys.  Two  or  three  of  the  children,  in  deep 
mourning,  were  playing  on  the  lawn;  Lowry  Looby  was  turning 
the  cows  into  the  new-mown  meadow,  and  Mr.  Daly  himself,  also 

368 


THE  COLLEGIANS 

in  deep  black,  was  standing,  cane  in  hand,  upon  the  steps  of  the 
hall-door.  The  vessel  still  swept  on,  but  Hardress  dared  not  turn 
his  eyes  in  the  direction  of  Castle  Chute.  The  dawn  of  the  following 
morning' beheld  him  tossed  upon  the  waves  of  the  Atlantic,  and 
looking  back  to  the  clifted  heads  of  the  Shannon,  that  stood  like  a 
gigantic  portal  opening  far  behind.  The  land  of  his  nativity  faded 
rapidly  on  his  sight;  but  before  the  vessel  came  within  sight  of  that 
of  his  exile,  Hardress  had  rendered  up  the  life  which  the  law  forbore 
to  take! 

His  mother  lived  long  after,  in  the  practise  of  the  austere  and 
humiliating  works  of  piety  which  her  Church  prescribes  for  the 
observance  of  the  penitent.  Her  manner,  in  the  course  of  tune, 
became  quiet,  serene,  and  uncomplaining,  and  though  not  so 
generally  admired,  she  became  more  loved  among  her  friends  and 
her  dependents,  than  in  her  days  of  pride  and  haughtier  inOuence. 

One  circumstance  may  be  mentioned  as  affording  a  striking 
proof  of  the  deep  root  which  her  predominant  failing  had  taken  in 
her  character.  After  reading  the  paper  which  Hardress  had  left 
in  his  cabinet,  and  finding  that  it  was  written  under  what  she  con- 
ceived a  too  humiliating  sense  of  his  unworthiness,  she  refrained 
from  bestowing  it  as  he  desired.  It  was  not  until  the  salutary 
change  above-mentioned  had  been  wrought  in  her  character,  and 
after  the  purpose  which  the  document  was  intended  to  accomplish 
had  been  brought  to  pass  by  other  means,  that  she  complied  with 
the  parting  wishes  of  her  son. 

It  was  a  circumstance  which  placed  the  character  of  Anne  Chute 
in  a  noble  point  of  view,  that  from  the  moment  of  the  fearful  dis- 
covery recorded  in  the  last  chapter,  she  never  once  upbraided  her 
unhappy  relative  with  the  concealment  which  had  so  nearly  linked 
her  fate  with  that  of  one  whose  conduct  she  had  so  much  cause  to 
view  with  horror.    Much  as  she  had  loved  Hardress,  and  shocked 
as  she  was  by  the  terrible  occurrences  of  that  night,  she  could  not 
look  back  without  the  feeling  of  one  who  has  escaped  a  great  and 
hidden  danger.    It  would  have  been  denying  her  a  virtue,  which 
she  ought  not  to  have  wanted,  if  we  said  that  the  generosity  and 
disinterestedness  of  Kyrle  Daly  failed  eventually  to  produce  tha 
effect  upon  her  feelings  which  it  had  long  since  done  upon  h 
reason     It  was  long,  indeed,  before  this  favourable  indication  coul< 
be  suffered  to  appear,  but  it  did  appear  at  length,  after  the  remem- 
brance of  this  unhappy  story  had  grown  faint  in  the  course 

369 


THE   COLLEGIANS 

and  the  tumult,  which  it  had  left  in  many  bosoms,  had  been  stilled 
by  years,  by  penitence  or  death.  They  were  then  united,  and  they 
were  happy  as  earth  could  render  hearts  that  looked  to  higher 
destinies  and  a  more  lasting  rest.  They  lived  long  after  in  the 
practise  of  the  duties  of  their  place  in  life,  and  of  that  religion  to 
which  the  guilty  and  the  neglectful  owe  their  deepest  terrors,  and 
good  men  their  deepest  consolations. 

The  wretched  partner  in  the  crime  of  Hardress  died  amid  all 
the  agonies  of  a  remorse  which  made  even  those  whose  eyes  had 
often  looked  upon  such  scenes  shrink  back  with  fear  and  wonder. 
He  owed  his  fate  to  an  erring  sense  of  fidelity,  and  to  the  limited 
and  mischievous  course  of  education  too  common  in  his  class; 
while  Hardress  might  be  looked  on  as  the  victim  of  his  cherished 
vanity,  and  pride  of  self  direction. 

These  events  furnished  Lowry  Looby  with  matter  for  a  great 
fund  of  philosophical  eloquence,  which  he  was  fond  of  indulging, 
at  even,  when  his  pipe  lit  freely,  and  the  fire  shone  bright  upon  the 
hearth.  This  faithful  servant  lived  long  enough  to  enjoy  the  hon- 
ours of  a  freehold  in  his  native  county  of  Clare,  and  to  share  it  with 
the  careful  housewife  who  was  accustomed  to  provide  for  his  wants 
with  so  much  affectionate  care  at  the  Dairy  Cottage.  His  name, 
I  understand,  was  found  upon  the  poll-books  at  the  late  memorable 
election  in  that  county;  but  on  which  side  of  the  question  he  be- 
stowed his  voice  is  more  than  my  utmost  industry  has  enabled  me 
to  ascertain. 

Reader,  if  you  have  shuddered  at  the  excesses  into  which  he 
plunged,  examine  your  own  heart,  and  see  if  it  hide  nothing  of  the 
intellectual  pride,  and  volatile  susceptibility  of  new  impressions, 
which  were  the  ruin  of  Hardress  Cregan.  If,  besides  the  amuse- 
ment which  these  pages  may  have  afforded,  you  should  learn  any- 
thing from  such  research  for  the  avoidance  of  evil,  or  the  pursuit  of 
good,  it  will  not  be  in  vain  that  we  have  penned  the  story  of  our 
two  COLLEGIANS. 


THE  END 


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